


the eight musketeers

by tiredzaya



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Fae Shenanigans, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Many Many Headcanons, Multi, Multiple Warriors of Light, Other, Patch 4.5: A Requiem For Heroes Spoilers, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2019, amaurotine!wol references?, bard shenanigans in ch 23, found family; sort of?, generally isn't very shippy but that's just me, mainly set in, spoilers are mentioned in the chapters they are in!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-06 04:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 31,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20500787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredzaya/pseuds/tiredzaya
Summary: sometimes, the world decides to throw everything its got at eight adventurers. sometimes, those eight adventurers are also idiots.a prompt fic for FFXIVwrite2019 on tumblr! general spoilers up to 5.05 content, although major spoilers will be noted in the chapters they appear.





	1. dragonscale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their fingers run over the curtains separating each bed as the night air rushes through the opened window.
> 
> when does it become too much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #1: voracious))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, thancred waters, riol forrest; rest are only mentioned
> 
> slight 4.4-4.58 spoilers!

Zaya can’t seem to find sleep.

The room is too quiet, the sheets feel like whetstones, their bed is too cold, and it is all too much. Without all of them, why have this room at all?

They slowly scoot off of the bunk bed, dragging the blanket with them. The left side of their chest complains at the movement, at the weight of the thick blanket, but Zaya ignores it as they trudge down the quiet hall.

The stone tiles of the Rising Stones are freezing cold, clicking gently against Zaya’s scales as they walk across them.

Hopefully Riol is asleep by now, or they’ll have a lecture to listen to in the morning.

The infirmary door creaks as Zaya pushes it open slowly, even though there is no one to wake from their rest inside.

Zaya’s fingers run over the curtains separating each bed as the night air rushes through the open window. In the first two beds are the twins, white hair taken from their usual braids and strewn across their pillows. The next is Lumelle and Elwin, who are bandaged to the high heavens. Duscha and A’dewah look peaceful, at least, and Syhrwyda’s bed is disheveled from her shifting in her ‘sleep’.

Zaya doesn’t dare look at the two right after Y’shtola and Urianger, where Tehra’ir and Valdís rest, even if they know they could easily put an end to their insomnia. It might really kill Zaya to look at their faces, knowing they are without soul.

Instead, they carefully pull open the curtain at the end to see Thancred, finally resting peacefully and without that pointless bandana around his face.

He has been here the longest, since the voice first appeared. The bandage that was wrapped round his injury is long gone, along with the bruise on his forehead. It’s almost as if nothing ever happened; as if he were still there and not in another plane of existence, for all Zaya knew.

Zaya’s stool is still by his bed, from their last visit to him.

_Surely he wouldn’t mind if I just…_

Zaya sits in the stool and lays their head right by his arm, blanket still wrapped around them. They won’t be here long, just enough to reassure themselves that there is still something—_someone_ to come back to when they wake.

If they just close their eyes, surely they’ll wake up in a bell or so. Just a bell…

* * *

The next morning, Riol walks into the infirmary to find Zaya sleeping against Thancred’s bed, his arm draped loosely over their shoulders.

“So this is where ye skulked off to.”

He shakes his head, laughing under his breath shortly before closing the curtain. The morning light doesn’t seem to go through them, thankfully, so Zaya should wake up when they’re ready, not when the daylight demands them to. He hums softly as he walks out to the hallway.

“I suppose even heroes have their vices."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aha first time posting something here!


	2. a few gil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "May I propose a trade of sorts?"
> 
> alphinaud has never been good with money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #2: bargain))
> 
> characters: alphinaud + alisaie leveilleur, ryne/mini-filia
> 
> slight shadowbringers spoiler; a name, to be exact. time for a funny!

“May I propose a trade of sorts?” Alphinaud calmly asks. The merchant merely raises an eyebrow at that. No, then.

“If you don’t have enough gil, you don’t have to pay for mine. I still have a few snacks.” Ryne says from behind him, looking at the paper bag she filled with sweets mere moments ago.

What kind of bastard would he be to deny her the small bag of candy she wanted? It was his fault that he walked out of the Catenaries without his gil pouch and then suggested to Ryne they go to the markets. If he could not afford it all, perhaps Alisaie could make do without bread…

“There you two are,” Alisaie comes rushing up the steps towards the two of them as Alphinaud turns around. “And I was just about to leave for the Ocular!”

“Oh, Alisaie! Forgive us, we were just shopping for some food, and, er—” Ryne nervously looks back and forth between her and Alphinaud, who is still counting the gil he pulled from his pockets.

“And what? Surely Alphinaud can pay for your things.” Alisaie crosses her arms, looking curiously at her twin.

“Well, you—you see, I just needed to count out the change and—” Alphinaud says. He is short just about twenty or so gil. _Damn my luck._

“And you forgot your gil pouch on the table, next to your journal?” Alisaie pulls said pouch out of her dress pocket, smirk growing wide. Ryne makes a small ‘oh’ noise as Alphinaud practically feels himself turn beet red. The merchant laughs right along with his sister.

“You spent so long the night before checking everything was still with you,” Alisaie says, still laughing in-between words. “Just to leave your gil the next day? And I dared to call you the organized one last night!”

Alphinaud snatches the pouch of gil from her hand and counts out the twenty three missing gil for Ryne’s candy and their groceries to pay before Alisaie embarrasses him more in front of the merchant who he will have to buy from until they return to the Source.

At least Ryne looks pleased when he hands her the bag of gummy sweets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when the whole 'alphinaud accidentally almost bankrupts the scions by not making a bargain for the sword' shenanigans happened, i was laughing the whole time.


	3. my dearest sapling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh, my dearest, beloved sapling, what have you done?"
> 
> without its roots, a branch cannot survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #3: lost))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, feo ul (!)
> 
> major shadowbringers spoilers; be warned!

Their lovely sapling has taken to wandering around Il Mheg as of late, especially now that the infernal light has returned to the skies. Every sort of fae being dances around them, too, as if they were a plague. What rubbish.

To that end, Feo Ul has fluttered free from Lyhe Ghiah past the Fuath tricksters awaiting them outside, shedding their size and grandeur as Titania if only to surprise their dearest sapling. The blasted gown, heels, scepter, and crown merely change size.

“Bah! What sort of wizardry did the old Titania do to free themselves of this wretched weight?!” A flick of their wrist, and the dress is… less infuriating, the heels are gone, and the scepter a wand. The crown doesn’t hinder Feo Ul’s fluttering wings, so it can stay as they soar to the edge of the Fuath’s domain.

Worry creeps in through the tips of their wings as they see their drahn sapling sitting right in the shallows of the lake, just by the Untouchable Gate. What reason would they have to sit so close to the same fae folk who attempted to drown them?

As Feo Ul floats closer, Zaya comes into full focus. White splotches their scales in iridescent shimmers, rips everywhere in their lovely blue cyclas and—wicked white, miniature wax wings spilling out from their back?!

Then they see it. They are pouting, eyes watery and red-rimmed.

“Here I thought those wicked Fuath lured you back here to drown you while you were at your weakest. But look at you—pouting at the water like a scorned Nu Mou!”

Feo Ul flutters downwards, where their beloved sapling barely even tilts their head upwards.

“And your _aether _is a whole other story,” they chide, prodding at their horns. “It’s got a mess of colors to it! Even your _soul_ has cracks of gold running through it!”

Zaya curls up further on themselves, tail dipping into the lakewater. Perhaps that was too harsh of an opening statement.

“Oh, my dearest, beloved sapling,” Feo Ul sits lightly upon one of Zaya’s horns. “what have you done?”

Zaya brings their hands up to their face, signing, _“You mean you do not know?”_

“Of course not! I was off blasting those nasty sin eaters while you and your little flowers climbed up to fight that wicked man!” 

Feo Ul kicks the side of their sapling’s head. It’s not like they always have eyes on their lovely branch, so why should Feo Ul watch over them like a hawk!

_“It is just… the Exarch—I mean…” _Zaya stops abruptly as a whimper is strangled in their throat. The guilt wracks the both of them to their very souls; deep and unending guilt for not just the Exarch, but…

“Sit very, very still,” The words come to Feo Ul’s mouth as if water to a waterfall. “You are lost—confused—and, judging by the state you’ve let your soul slip to, have precious little time to gather your wits.”

Zaya relaxes by just a smidge, but it is enough for Feo Ul to slip in through the cracks and hold their own soul to theirs.

_May it be a calming shadow to rest in_, Feo Ul thinks, fluttering their wings to inch ever closer to their poor, poor sapling’s head.

“Your kind is always so interested with what lies on the road ahead, and so we faeries muddle your vision with fog and glamour. Such trickery is easy to see through, but your path is riddled with something greater than tricks and games.”

Feo Ul is almost done; just a bit more coaxing, perhaps. Zaya nearly leans into Feo Ul’s presence, eyes downcast to the water.

Their sapling’s being quivers, not unlike that of a lost deerling that wandered towards Il Mheg years and years ago.

“For all you have done to gift us the night sky, I shall guide you, if only for a short while,” Feo Ul smiles into Zaya’s hair. “After all, not even the trees can stand tall against such a flood.”

Their beloved sapling finally lets tears drip down their face, the gates to their soul slamming wide open. Their small, small hands smooth out hair turning white, aether flowing slow and steady to the center of it all. Feo Ul takes it all in; the happiness, the grief, the shock of speaking a name and the hatred associated to another.

Their ephemeral flower’s soul is monstrous; light seeps out through the cracks in icky liquid, the precious indigo and sapphire hues blinded by these Lightwardens they have felled. Any other faerie would brand this wandering sapling a monster.

Feo Ul sees a hero in the midst of this vague flood of shattered soul, and it is all they need to step over the line towards their sapling’s bleeding aether. 

They whisper to the shards, _“See yourself as we see you, and that shall be the greatest clue. You know not only his garden, but yours. Ask the flowers what they know and you will surely find your way.”_

They slowly rest an imaginary seed at the ground next to their sapling’s heart. _“Whatever your answer may be, I will be here, waiting and watching, watching and waiting. For the night, for you? It matters not.”_

The seed buries itself, and a proud little sapling—all orange to boot—sprouts up, shade covering the amalgamation of their soul. _“I have time—always have time for you.”_

Their precious, ephemeral sapling sighs out a veritable wave of emotions as Feo Ul redirects their gaze to their hands.

“_It, as always, is a long, long story,” _they sign, peace finally finding its place on Zaya’s face. _“One with an Ascian, a time traveler, and eight warriors.”_

Feo Ul remains by their side for fifty flaps of Lyhe Ghiah’s wings, and then follows them back to the Crystarium, wings fluttering by their horns.

They had also been lost, nigh on a century ago. It would only be fair to follow the rules and return the favor to the Exarch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was meaning only to write about 500 words bc i have homework.
> 
> i played myself when i decided to write feo ul.


	4. untouchable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Alright, which one of you triggered the obvious trap?!"
> 
> the one rule to dealing with the fuath is to never deal with the fuath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #4: shifting blame))
> 
> characters: thancred waters, urianger augerelt, ryne/mini-filia, zaya qestir
> 
> shadowbringers spoilers for lvl 73 dungeon!

“Is that… the crown! We’ve found it!”

Minfilia rushes ahead of all three of them the moment the hallway opens to reveal the crown, floating on a pedastal. It is all Thancred can do to stay standing, but Zaya and Urianger both wipe the sweat from their brow and chase after her with ease.

He is so, so tired of Il Mheg and these gods damned fae tricks, but he must keep pushing on. If he doesn’t, then Ranjit will find them and then Minfilia…

No. Damn it all, just focus on the task at hand. 

Thancred glances up just in time to see the bastard Fuath—who dropped a twelves be-damned _beehive_ on them earlier—snicker in his direction.

He snaps far too quickly for his liking, straightening up to meet the Fuath’s eyes. “What in the seven hells do you want now?” 

“Whatever do you mean? It is _you _and your friends who want something from us,_” _the Fuath waves his striped cane in the direction that Minfilia and the others ran off to. “I simply came to watch the spectacle unfold.”

Thancred squints his eyes as the Fuath smiles. By his count, they’ve done nothing even approaching interesting to a trickster such as him since entering the palace. If there was any so-called ‘spectacle’ to unfold—

Neither him nor the Fuath seem to expect the shriek that cuts through their silent argument, followed by what sounds like waves crashing into a wall.

Thancred has the slimmest idea of what happened out there, and so he snatches up his gunblade and goes running to where Minfilia had just minutes ago.

“Alright, which one of you triggered the obvious trap?!”

He dashes onto the platform where a pedastal and a crown were when he last looked to find Zaya sprawled over the floor while Urianger and Minfilia run towards him, weapons drawn.

“Thancred! Pray, draw their ire that I may endeavor to raise our friend,” Urianger’s star globe trails behind him as he runs, the cards soaked with water. “’Twas mine mistake, after all.”

Minfilia does a double take when Urianger speaks, but says nothing as she dashes behind him to hide. Perhaps she was having a hard time parsing what he was saying? 

It can all be figured out later who is to blame and why for this whole . Thancred dashes forward, gunblade at the ready. Distantly, he can hear the Fuath snickering—at his clumsy movements or at this disaster they’ve created, he cannot tell.

Perhaps it was all his fault for not being able to keep up with them, with Minfilia. Perhaps this needs no blame placed on their end when it was all his for failing them first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops i'm super behind and this turned into minor angst somehow


	5. skip, hop, and jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It can't be harder than defeating an Ascian, can it?"
> 
> lumelle has a lot to learn from her homeland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #5: vault))
> 
> characters: lumelle de lipine, estinien wyrmblood, haurchefant greystone
> 
> some ARR context spoilers from 2.55 ‘The Parting Glass’ but not anything from HW

“It can’t be harder than defeating an Ascian, can it?”

Lumelle spins her training lance around as Estinien watches, probably scoffing under his breath at her silly ideas. He was, quite literally, manhandled by Aymeric to take care of her and Alphinaud while he was attempting to clear them for entrance to Ishgard.

Estinien surely knows her from training her adopted brother. Elwin had always seemed to have luck with talking to him, so why wouldn’t she?

But then again, Elwin is dead. How much luck did he have if he… No, no! She shouldn’t think ill of her br—the dead, no matter how bitter she’s become in recent moons.

“You are training to become a _dragoon_, not a by-the-dozen lancer,” Estinien finally says, voice sharp in the still air. “Do not be so silly as to take it lightly.”

He pulls his lance—Gae Bolg, was it?—around from his back, dropping to the proper position Lumelle somehow manages to keep messing up. A lock of his silvery hair falls loose from the motion that he attempts to blow back in vain.

Lumelle can’t hold back her snicker. “Need a little help there, Azure Dragoon?”

All he does is lift his head to glare at her. She shuts up, in favor of keeping her life this afternoon.

“Watch closely,” Estinien says just before jumping into the air and aiming at one of the training dummies they’ve set up just outside Camp Dragonhead. Lumelle loses him for barely a second when he comes soaring back down in what he called a Spineshatter Dive.

She claps as he storms over, right before pushing Gae Bolg into her hands while taking the battered training one. It feels like 100 tonze compared to her normal paladin sword, with all the silly details that look like dragon wings attached.

Lumelle nearly drops his lance into the ankle deeps snow. “Er, what? Why are you giving me yours?”

Estinien groans, before pointing at the dummy he hasn’t demolished. His voice gives off this tired air to it that Lumelle’s only heard in Duscha when she comes to him with countless bruises.

“You are to replicate that dive—no matter how poorly you do it—’fore the blizzard comes and I inevitably have to rush you indoors lest you freeze to death out here.”

The wind rushes by as Lumelle’s joking manner falls, letting the unbridled anger Estinien was _supposed_ to be keeping in check rise back to the surface. She can barely pull off an Elusive Jump, and now he wants her to do a _dive_?

“Damn you, Estinien,” she mutters as she turns to trudge through snow. “Damn you and your stupid, heavy lance.”

Estinien barks out a laugh as Lumelle lowers herself in preparation to jump.

“You’re already doing it wrong!”

* * *

“How has your dragoon training come along?”

Haurchefant has invited her into his office for a small dinner. He is incredibly tall compared to her, so the chair he had brought in does not leave her at a comfortable eye level. Lumelle instead sits on a stack of books next to the desk.

“Gods, don’t even start,” she shovels a bite of the stew into her mouth. “Estinien is a poor teacher, and I honestly don’t understand why Aymeric sent him here. He’s like… an insufferable sibling.”

Lumelle’s chest tugs painfully when she says her final word. Gods, it’s been weeks already; Alphinaud and the others need her to stop sulking. Why is she like this?

Haurchefant seems to notice her awkward pause in eating. “Did speaking about training recall something troubling? Or is it…”

He already knows; he knew from the moment she and Alphinaud came trembling into his camp.

“…Can I trust you to keep a secret?”

He nods, setting his spoon down into the half-full bowl of soup and patting his hand over his heart. “Always.”

“It’s the events of… that,” she mutters, eyes already glaring holes into Haurchefant’s paperwork. “I can’t do anything here without thinking of my—my brother. Training with Estinien reminds me of when Elwin trained with him. It’s gotten to the point where simply being around Tataru puts me in a mood, and I just feel horrible when I start acting up around her and—”

“Lumelle,” Haurchefant cuts in just as she feels herself begin to ramble and tremble. “You are allowed to grieve. You haven’t taken a day off since you got here, and I feel it’s beginning to take a toll on your mind.”

“But—”

“What is there to disagree with? Even the most valiant heroes need rest, especially when placed under such demanding circumstances as you have been. I have watched too many soldiers succumb to their mind to let you fall through the same hole.”

Lumelle can’t find any words to fight back, nor the strength to keep hold on her soup when Haurchefant slowly pries it from her hands. He… he’s right. Maybe she should rest.

He stands up, holding his hand out to her. “Come. I would like to show you something.”

She places her hand in his—gods, even her hand is so much tinier than his—and lets Haurchefant drag her along through the doors of his office out to the freezing snow. Their footprints track to the other side of camp, to which Lumelle will later learn is the small burial chamber they are allowed to mourn their losses in. Bells later, Lumelle will end up setting Elwin’s gun in a enclave alongside the earring Zaya made for her. She will cry, and Haurchefant will be there to help her pretend she still has a sibling left.

Right before they enter the hidden building, she jokes, “What will the camp think of you dragging a child along by the hand?

* * *

Both Estinien and Haurchefant have come out today to see her attempt this stupid Spineshatter Dive combination for the final time.

“Remember,” Estinien calls out from across the snowfield. “If you fail, you get night watch for a week!”

“Gods, I remember!”

Estinien’s Gae Bolg somehow makes its way into Lumelle’s hands right before she marches to about five yalms away from the dummy; where she has to start, according to Estinien’s awful teaching. The wind today chills down to the bone, snow melting in her hair. Gods, that will be a pain to wash later.

“Alright, so Jump, Elusive Jump, then Spineshatter Dive. That’s all you have to do,” she mutters to herself as she lowers her body and widens her stance. “Then Haurchefant will get you hot chocolate and Estinien will bugger off for a few bells before coming back for Gae Bolg. Right.”

Her legs tense, and she soars into the air, lance pointed to the already beaten dummy as she jumps once, twice, three times.

_Final jump!_ She pushes back against the slippery snow one last time to soar yalms into the air, lance gleaming with aether as she falls back down. The dummy is right there, right there, and she just has to land…

Gae Bolg goes straight through the dummy’s fake torso as Lumelle crashes to her feet, knees aching. Everything aches, actually, with the force she came back down with. Distantly, one of the two spectators claps wildly—Haurchefant, probably—while the other slowly makes their way through the snow.

Lumelle falls back into the snow, sinking into the cold feeling. She actually did it!

Estinien leans into her view, hair falling over his eyes. _His helmet’s off for once,_ she thinks as he holds his hand out.

“Decent job, I suppose,” he grins, maybe without realizing it. “You did fulfill the requirements, though, so you win our little bet.”

Lumelle grins wildly before slapping her hand into Estinien’s open one, pulling herself up.

She still only makes it up to his chest, but she feels like she’s a thousand thousand malms high as Haurchefant hurries them both into the camp, Gae Bolg dragging in the snow behind her and straw dummy smoking in a heap outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i wanted to keep it to the first section, but then the idea of lumelle reconnecting with people from ishgard and having what i'm gonna call "support siblings" grabbed me by the throat


	6. dance like nobody's watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryne can't help but giggle at Alisaie's silly gesture and places her hand in the red mage's own.
> 
> ryne has never had so many kind people in her life before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #6: first steps))
> 
> characters: ryne, alisaie + alphinaud leveilleur, thancred waters, y'shtola rhul, urianger augurelt, the warriors of light
> 
> general shadowbringers spoilers! set after 5.0 MSQ

The night is back after a long, arduous journey, and all of Norvrandt has come to either the Crystarium or Eulmore to celebrate the darkness. Even if most of them are like blind bats in the darkness. 

“Ryne! What are you doing, sitting here by yourself,” Alisaie leaps over the railing of the Wandering Steps to get to the table, where she is very much alone and without much food. “Everyone else is over there!”

Alisaie points towards the archway leading to the front of the Crystal Tower, where a band and colorful lights has been set up to provide entertainment. Thancred had said every proper party needed one; maybe he was the one that set it up.

“I realize that,” she starts slowly, unsure what proverbial landmines to avoid around Alisaie other than the Inn at Journey’s Head and Sin Eaters. “I’ve just… I’ve never danced before, much less around so _many_ people, so I thought…”

Alisaie clicks her tongue, tilting her head in what Ryne can only hope is playfully. She still doesn’t have much experience with people her age.

“Then, shall we remedy that? If Thancred has some asinine objection to his, he will learn how levin feels on his tastebuds rather than alcohol,” Alisaie snickers, leaning over to bow slightly as she holds her hand out to Ryne. “Shall we dance, little princess?”

Ryne can’t help but giggle at Alisaie’s silly gesture and places her hand in the red mage’s own. Even as Alisaie drags her towards the makeshift dance floor, Ryne slowly feels herself grow heavy with fear and doubt. Did she say the right things? Is Alisaie being nice for real or just faking it?

“Ryne,” Alisaie starts speaking as she slows her pace. “I know that we haven’t been the best examples of people as of late. Especially Thancred; he really has some problems we need to figure out, but you know you don’t have to fear us, right?”

Ryne’s free hand grasps the hem of her dress. Her stomach is doing flips in her stomach; how did Alisaie read her mind like that?! “I—I know, but you are all so good and I just—”

“You think that highly of us? I’m surprised,” Alisaie looks over her shoulder back at Ryne. “There are much nicer people than us out there.”

“Well, I know that there is no—no one perfect, but you and—and everyone else are the first people I thought of when someone asked me who my family was. It’s the first time since—since Ranjit found me and saved me from some bandits that I thought—I thought someone was family, but if you don’t like that, I can…”

Ryne loses the will to finish that sentence. After all they’ve been through together, would they still want her as family? Even though she is the sole reminder that Thancred’s Minfilia will never come back? Or maybe—

Alisaie suddenly stops in her tracks, leaving Ryne to step face first into her back and lose her thoughts. Alisaie’s hand feels a bit sweaty; it’s such a cold night, though, so why?

“…Truly? You think of us as…” Alisaie whispers into the air; Ryne cannot tell if it is shock or disgust that leaks into her voice. “Gods above, Ryne, you bless us with so much love that I can’t even think where to begin returning it!”

Ryne’s heart skips a beat when Alisaie turns her head, smiling back at her with glimmering eyes. “But, er, the others might not want to be related to me, so it was just a passing thought, so, um—”

“I dare not think what might need to happen to make most of them turn you down! If anything,” Alisaie begins her stride again, and the music grows louder and louder. “They would be glad to have you, if not stay by your side!”

Ryne finally, finally lets her heart lead. “Then—Then could we ask them?!”

“Of course!”

Alisaie and Ryne begin running towards the group of people surrounding the band, with plates of colorful foods and eyes filled with excitement everywhere they look. In the crowd, Zaya and Thancred spin around, both of them finally smiling without restraint, while Y’shtola and Urianger watch, shaking their heads yet still smiling. 

Syhrwyda bumps into them, pulling the two of them into their little dance circle, where Alphinaud twirls cautiously with Tehra’ir as to not step on his tail. Lumelle pulls Alisaie into her arms as Elwin laughs, a glass of some fruit juice sloshing as he tilts back. Duscha, Valdís, and A’dewah all smile when they see her, towering above her yet still gentle when they guide her clumsy steps to help her dance.

Thancred and Zaya come back with Y’shtola and Urianger some time later, when Ryne has learned the first few movements to several different dances from Lumelle and Elwin. Alisaie takes her hands and spins her around like one of those storybook princes do in Urianger’s stories.

Everyone claps along to the band’s next song as Alphinaud switches with his sister, taking Ryne’s hand and attempting to go with the flow—he steps on her toes a few times, but her new boots from Tehra’ir help—as Alisaie switches to sweep Lumelle off her feet. Thancred somehow manages to convince Zaya to show off the Kriegstanz they learned during their year alone on the Source, and Ryne is mesmerized by all of the steps Zaya can do. They try to teach Ryne how to handle a chakram, but it is already late by the time they do, and so Ryne is lifted onto Duscha’s shoulders as they walk slowly to the Pendants in a large group. Ryne dreams that night of a life spent alongside them all, dancing and laughing the whole way.

The next morning, Ryne whispers to Minfilia, who is there but also isn’t. It’s a weird feeling, that’s all, but it’s something that wasn’t there before.

“This is the path I’ve chosen, and I want you to watch the first steps of it. This was your family first, after all.”

The strange feeling in her chest lightens, and Ryne is ready to start the first day in a familiar but different world. All she has to do is find a way to wake up Thancred from where he is, under several tails and arms of other sleeping people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was supposed to be short, and then i started rambling about feelings because i just got into the mood i suppose
> 
> blame the happy music i was listening to.


	7. forgive me, forgive me not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fray's words come to mind when he kneels down, eyes downcast and watery. 'Listen to our heartbeat. I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you...'
> 
> forgiveness is naught but a burden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #7: forgiven))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, urianger augurelt, y'shtola rhul, alisaie + alphinaud leveilleur, thancred waters, ryne
> 
> major shadowbringers spoilers! up to lvl 79 MSQ 'The Unbroken Thread' and then some canon divergence

As always, they know just when and where to find them.

“Ah, we have found thee.”

Urianger stands tall in front of them, solemn against the myriad flowers of Il Mheg. Their fellow Scions are not far behind, slowly making their way through the flower field.

“Word reached us of thy recovery, and thus did we gather with all haste, only to find no trace of thee left at the Crystarium,” Urianger says, face somehow remaining devoid of all emotion under Zaya’s harsh gaze. “By thy looks, I gather thou hast gleaned that which I… we came to tell thee.”

Zaya already knows how this section of their story will end once Urianger hesitates in his words.

Fray’s words come to mind when he kneels down, eyes downcast and watery. _Listen to our heartbeat. I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you… _What an odd reaction to have, considering how much Zaya dreaded liars and false stories. By all logic, they should despise him to the seventh hell, but… they don’t. He might have held disdain for his trickery long ago, when they were younger and less aware of how twisted Eorzean society was, but they are years older than they were before.

“I offer no excuses. When I agreed to aid the Exarch in his plans, ‘twas in full acceptance of the condemnation I would face when my duplicity was laid bare,” Urianger lets his hair fall into his eyes. “Yet I sense a resolve in thee, not rancor. Thou art intent on walking thy path to its end, art thou not?”

He raises his head, eyes wavering in the everlasting light above the two of them. The other Scions have nearly made it to them.

“If thou canst forgive my deception—or, failing that, set aside thy displeasure for a time—I would beg leave to follow thee,” Urianger looks ever so slightly over his shoulder. “As I imagine the others will also ask.”

Zaya’s stomach starts to turn with each passing second. His eyes are fit to burst, and it is so, _so_ hard to deny him, but it is not the worst feeling pooling in their chest. It is the sharp, disgusting pain and anger at not him, but themselves for what they are about to do next.

They harshly sign out something to him—they cannot do this charade any longer than this—with rancor filling their eyes to the best of their ability, and Urianger’s eyes widen before dropping back down to the flowers below. The light may be blinding, but Zaya is certain that Urianger sheds a tear or two before speaking again.

“I… Mine own theories have proven to be wrong in the face of thy beliefs, then. I hope not for thy forgiveness; only for thy safety,” Urianger pulls himself to his feet. “I… will keep our mutual friends at bay. If thou must, leave now.”

Urianger turns and walks back through the sunset colored flowers of Il Mheg towards Lydha Lran, and Zaya swears they can hear Alisaie scream and Alphinaud call after them as they run as fast as they can towards Lyhe Ghiah, where Feo Ul awaits to sweep them to the bottom of the ocean, waxy white wings and golden cracks running through their skin.

Their heart pounds with more than adrenaline as they crush small blue flowers underfoot, shutting their eyes before more jumbled cries and calls from beyond blur their already poor vision.

All there is now is the tug in their chest leading them to Lyhe Ghiah and the pounding in their horns.

_Listen to our heartbeat. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was going to do some dark knight reflection writing, but then i had a better idea that hurt more in my head... sorry.
> 
> the flowers that zaya crushes in their full-on sprint are forget-me-nots! hence the title. i like to think i'm clever...


	8. crystallized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each step towards the crystallized Flood makes Zaya's head pound just a little bit more.
> 
> zaya has always been the one strongest in the Echo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #8: free day; i used sensitivity))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, alisaie leveilleur
> 
> minor shadowbringers spoilers! lvl 70, alisaie's route

The small footprints lead closer and closer to the ruins of Naabath Areng, and so do the small droplets of Sin Eater blood. At least, what Zaya presumes is Sin Eater blood, going by the weird glowing white resemblance to the one they fought a few bells ago.

Just when they drop down the small cliff face to approach the tower, Zaya has an unexplainable urge to collapse. Their head pounds something fierce, like when an Echo vision decides to intrude on their thoughts.

Each step towards the crystallized Flood makes Zaya’s head pound just a bit more. The edges of their vision fill with white light, as if their eyes were being crystallized themselves. Gods, they just want to find Alisaie and _this _is what happens?

The gods must hear their prayers, because Alisaie jumps down from—gods, what looks like a fifty yalm high tower?—and rushes over to meet them.

Alisaie suddenly pulls her weapon from her side. “Zaya! Duck!”

Just as they do what Alisaie needs, a sword comes swinging where their head would have been right as another pulse goes through their head, knocking them flat.

Alisaie jumps over them, stabbing the winged creature through the chest and blowing up a Verthunder in its chest. As the _thing_ falls to the ground and dissipates, Alisaie turns, holding out her hand.

“Let’s get you away from the wall, hm? Can’t say I feel much, but this must feel like a bat being swung at your head if Y’shtola’s reaction was anything to go by.”

Zaya gratefully takes the young red mage’s hand, shielding their eyes with their free hand. 

Thank the gods for mutual understanding, they think as Alisaie quickly drags them back to the Inn at Journey’s Head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops, this one's the short one today, huh.


	9. metathesiophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They want so desperately to join the festivities, to take one of the Scion's hands and twirl them around the Crystarium plaza until all that worries them is their clumsy footsteps.
> 
> changing is a long, arduous process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #9: hesitate))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, thancred waters, rest are only mentioned; slight zaya/thancred this chapter
> 
> shadowbringers context spoilers! basically a follow-up/b-side to 'dance like nobody's watching' that focuses on zaya and thancred instead!

The Crystarium is packed to the brim with those celebrating the night sky, especially with the party that the Wandering Stairs is throwing. From what Zaya can see, Y’shtola and Urianger have secluded themselves to the sidelines while watching Duscha clumsily get twirled around by Syhrwyda’s hands, Alphinaud clapping to their silly little dance just yalms away. Tehra’ir catches their gaze and tries to wave them over, 

Thancred is sitting at the bar alone, swirling the ice in his drink around the cup as he stares right at it. Zaya slowly trudges over to the gunbreaker instead, vaguely feeling a bewildered stare register from behind them through their Echo.

“Ah, Zaya,” Thancred says, eyes never leaving his glass of… water, apparently. “Come to have a celebratory drink? Of all people, I’d think you’d deserve it most.”

They nervously shuffle to sit to his right, hands at the ready for when he turns to speak to them. He remains lost in the bottom of his cup, only turning to meet their eyes when their tail takes a swipe at the legs of his chair, glass clattering against hardwood. “You _could_ have tapped my shoulder, you know.”

_“I know I could have, but it’s much more fun to surprise you,” _they sign as Thancred lets his hand meet his forehead with a sigh. _“Can I not have some fun tonight?”_

“Then why are you here speaking with me, rather than dancing with your friends?”

_“I…”_ Zaya’s hands falter, eyes narrowing. They want so desperately to join the festivities, to take one of the Scion’s hands and twirl them around the Crystarium plaza until all that worries them is their clumsy footsteps. To step in time with Alphinaud’s clapping as the stars spin above them. To pretend that everything is alright, and that when tomorrow comes, nothing will change, even if they know it is inevitable.

Thancred slowly places his glass of water in their frozen hands, gloved palms wrapping around their bandaged ones. “Take your time. We’ve an excess of it now, with the Exarch—well, G’raha—still figuring out how to send the rest of us home.”

His hands slip free when Zaya focuses back into the contrast between the warmth of his touch and the chill of the glass.

They sips the ice cold water slowly before placing it back on the bar counter. Why, he asks without words, are you stalling? His eyes pry into their soul, searching for the answer they have not given.

_“I do not want to face how they’ve changed,” _they perform the signs as slow and steady as they possibly can. _“Out of all of them, you have been the sole one I can try to look at with no fear.”_

“Change is inevitable. You know this best of us, with the time we’ve spent apart, yes?” 

Zaya takes a deep breath. _“I know. I understand it, but it does not mean I want to accept it.”_

Thancred hums his agreements, shifting his eyes over to the tables closest to the Pendants. “I also know it all too well, with the five years I’ve spent solely on her.”

Zaya follows his gaze to find Ryne sitting across the way, tiredly shoveling food into her mouth. 

“I never wanted Minfilia to be gone, but here we are, with Ryne instead,” Thancred turns back to them. “It takes a long time to change, as you have seen.”

_Amh Araeng, _their mind supplies. Thancred’s entire demeanor flipped on its head then, with Ranjit’s defeat and the arrival of little Ryne with strawberry blonde hair and sterling blue eyes. 

Zaya’s eyes wander to the flood of people going to the Caternaries and the Pendants._“I have had four years less to adapt than you, and besides, who was it you called stubborn years ago?”_

“You, of course. With your bullheaded approach to everything, I imagined you would find your way to us earlier than you did.”

_“Change, Thancred,” _they realize his name-sign flows less smoothly than before. _“I lost all of you again.”_

“And you’re afraid you’ll lose us again.”

Zaya’s eyes go wide when his voice grows quiet, unlike any other time before. “You lose someone once, and the fear never goes away. All you can do is make your choices and hope to still be blessed with their presence in following moons.”

Thancred goes silent, the music from the band filling in the gaps of their conversation. Zaya fiddles with the hem of their new tabard, unsure what to sign in response. For them to have similar situations where the fear of change is ever present? Where could they even begin?

Zaya’s trail of thought breaks when Thancred pushes himself off of his seat, his hand on theirs as they stop crumpling the fabric of their clothes.

“And I believe I know where you should start,” Thancred swiftly scoops up their hand to place a light kiss on the back of their hand. “Ask any favor of me, and tonight we shall make it memory to last long enough to keep your fears at bay. I am, after all, experienced in many a trade.”

They slowly pull their hand back from his palm to sign, _“You do not have to keep bringing back your ‘bard’ experience, you know. It is fooling no one.”_

Thancred chuckles as Zaya reaches back for his hand, squinting at how their feet did not quite reach the ground from the stool. “Alright, alright, tough crowd. May I at least ask for a dance?”

Zaya pauses. A dance? They know none, save for the kriegstanz from Ranaa and the dances of the Steppe, which they are certain don’t count here on the First as proper dance.

But his smile seems reassuring enough, so they nod and grab his hand, leaping down from the stool, letting him guide them towards the plaza. Y’shtola and Urianger catch their eyes as Thancred begins to slowly spin them around under the stars of the night, both smirking at the two of them. Distantly, Zaya wonders if they’ve done something wrong, if something else they hadn’t noticed had changed about the two scholars.

Then Thancred spins them once more, and they find themselves smiling before the fear of unlearning and relearning their friends catches up. The people swirl around them, doing proper dances, but all Zaya cares for is matching Thancred’s pace as they go around the plaza, cautiously avoiding his toes no matter how thick his boots may be. Metal boots still hurt, after all.

When Thancred finally laughs from his chest as they bump into Duscha and Syhrwyda—still clumsily trying to dance like the inhabitants of the Crystarium—Zaya lets themself believe that everything will be fine, no matter what happens next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm. this seems a bit messy, but it'll do for now.


	10. this riddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I… All I can do is pray you’ll come home, just like everyone else.”
> 
> to keep hope alive in the face of despair is a difficult fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #10: foster))
> 
> characters: raubahn aldynn, lyse hext, riol forrest, alianne vellegrance, hoary boulder, sanson smyth, guydelot thildonnet, tataru taru, estinien wymrblood, sidurgu orl, rielle de caulignont (rest are only mentioned/referenced); lyse/y'shtola vibes and sanson/guydelot if you squint maybe???
> 
> patch 4.4 through 4.56 spoilers! hc where the process btwn thancred's calling + the wol's calling is a year.

When Thancred, Valdís, and Tehra’ir collapse at the Alliance meeting, it is true chaos to keep the accident under ropes from the moment the Elder Seedseer has them spirited away to the infimaries of the new Ala Mhigo. For three of the world-saving Scions to fall without so much as a fight is a story that would doom all hope, and so Raubahn and Lyse set off to speaking with every commander and every ally to prevent the truth from coming out.

It feels… wrong, to be lying about the Scions when the one Warrior he knows personally would brawl him for doing so. To Zaya, a lie holds weight unlike any other sin on Nald’thal’s scales, and so he has done his best to live to his friend’s beliefs.

Less than half a moon later, news reaches Rhalgr’s Reach about the Scions’ condition yet again in the middle of Raubahn’s weekly meeting with Lyse and M’naago. Riol slowly cracks open the tent covers, his sole eye looking down to his feet as he finally speaks.

“Lyse,” he starts slow as Lyse stands to meet him. “We’ve ‘ad more ‘casualties’ to the voice.”

Lyse grabs the man’s shoulders, setting him up straight as she desperately asks, “Who?”

“Among the lot o’ them are Urianger, Duscha, Syhrwyda, A’dewah, an’ …” Riol trails off. M’naago slowly gets up to walk to Lyse.

Lyse’s arms tremble something fierce, tone growing desperate. “Please, _please don’t…”_

“Lady Y’shtola,” Riol places a hand on Lyse’s shoulder. “She’s been taken.”

Lyse finally crumples from the combined stress of the Garlean Empire’s return and the Scion’s predicament; Raubahn had expected a new leader like her to give in far, _far _earlier. Both he and M’naago seem to be of the same mindset, striding over to Lyse to keep her upright as she lets herself crumble into their arms.

As Riol continues with requests from a Scion named Krile for the other Scions’ comatose bodies, Raubahn can’t help but think that this world might crumble under the pressure of this riddle the gods have bestowed upon them.

* * *

Riol is sorting out the notes from Thancred’s journal, dug out from his piles of other research when he hears at least five loud thuds from just around the corner. Thancred’s notes go flying as he rushes to meet the entrance hall floors, hoping, praying that this won’t be like the banquet again and—

Alisaie’s screams ring out moments before he can round the corner, Hoary and Alianne following his tail. “No! NO! This can’t be happening! Y’shtola, Urianger, open your eyes, _please_! Don’t… Not again…”

Alisaie vigorously shakes Urianger’s body, sprawled over the floor alongside Y’shtola, Syhrwyda, A’dewah, and Duscha. The Scions’ miniature army of scholars and their go-to protector, all lying dead silent on the ground of their home base.

Riol rushes to kneel at Y’shtola’s side, lifting her off the ground slowly, Truthseeker clattering to the stone. Alianne comes to his side, shaking her head as she looks once over Y’shtola’s chest. She knows exactly the same as he; they are gone, just like in the reports.

Hoary, the strongest man Riol knows other than perhaps gods damned Zenos himself, struggles to pry Alisaie’s arms from Urianger and the others. Zaya, Lumelle and Elwin are merely watching in abject horror, eyes wide and trembling. He isn’t surprised; it isn’t everyday some bastard messes with your head and then manages to take your friend’s souls from them.

“Gods,” Riol mutters to himself, cradling Y’shtola closer to his chest as her arm begins to slip. “Ye’ve got to be kiddin’ me; one problem solved jus’ to receive another, harder one.”

The only problem he can’t solve as of now is how to keep the remaining Scions anything but despondent when what Eorzea needs is a beacon of light.

* * *

The fight at Ghimlyt Dark is a horrible one, with so many Garleans choosing to lose their lives rather than retreat in the face of arrow rains and thrusting spears. The unit of bards-to-be form behind him and Guydelot, small ‘woahs’ of amazement going around as Zaya, forever the over-achiever, swaps between instrument, bow, fists, and greatsword with ease, carving a path for them down to the crater of Ghimlyt Dark.

“You still never fail to impress me, friend!”

Guydelot calls out as he races past, sniping down those straggling Garlean soldiers along the way. Sanson’s unit relaxes, voices becoming clear once again as they focus on nearby soldiers of the Foreign Levy, the Yellow Serpents, and the Free Brigade. He’ll need to focus on creating song under stress, but for now, they can rest easy knowing that they are doing well.

“Guydelot, this is a _battlefield_, not a forest of generally docile creatures! You can’t just run—bugger me, he’s gone,” Sanson groans, letting his lance drop as he rushes to follow Guydelot to where the Warriors of Light have jumped to. His unit can hold for themselves under the guidance of Commander Heuloix—at least, he hopes they can until he manages to drag their supposed mentor back by the scruff of his neck.

When he finally catches up to the elezen bard after many, many kneecracking drops, Guydelot is standing solemnly at the edge of a makeshift arena, almost perfectly circular.

“Guydelot! What were you thinking,” he hisses, dragging his muddied lance across the cracked stone ground. “Our—Your students are still back there fighting! Imagine if Zaya hadn’t cleared the—”

Guydelot slaps his gloved, bloodied hand over Sanson’s mouth, smelling just as rank as it looks. Sanson can only try to pry his face free from his partner’s hand until he sees what Guydelot sees.

Zaya, kneeling over three bodies, sticking from the ground yalms away. Their bow is splintered across the ground, bowstring loose; their harp laying in bits and hissing with the remains of aether bullets. Something alike to a chakram finds itself at Guydelot’s feet, covered in crimson and battered like the rest.

Guydelot lets his hand drop as Zaya’s body trembles in the center of the arena, two Garlean commanders in red and blue armor laying near dead at the edge of the arena. Those they kneel over; they are their fellow Warriors of Light and a Scion, all _children_.

“There is no soul in them,” Guydelot whispers to the sounds of war going on behind them. Sanson carefully slings his lance back over his shoulder, string fraying and dirty. “They are alive but _gone_ at the same time. Lost to the abyss, perhaps.”

Guydelot almost sounds fervent in the way he states it; the loss of life, yet not. Sanson can’t pretend to understand the emotions he hides behind those words, so he doesn’t. At least, not while Zaya is there, in need of help, so he lets his feet lead him to one of their friend’s bodies, lifting the small elezen girl into his arms as he looks over to Guydelot to do the same. He swiftly comes to pick up the other elezen, cradling the girl’s heavy armor as two of the Doman representatives run over, fear clear in their eyes. Zaya gives them this soulless gaze, eyes wandering as they struggle to pull themselves together before the two of them.

Guydelot hums a tune of which he composed with Sanson suns before the battlefield came into view in an attempt to raise Zaya’s spirits just a tad before the Doman leader storms his way through the trail of corpses. From what Sanson can see, they don’t respond at all.

If a song were written about the scene from moments before, _that_ would be the true Ballad of Oblivion; loss without recovery, a limbo with no escape. Sanson can only pray that Zaya does not lose themselves the same way Jehantel had years ago.

_Keep hope, friend. We will find a way through this._

* * *

The Rising Stones has a full table or two of people waiting to gain access to the infirmary holding all of the fallen Scions by the time Lyse can find the time to ask for a leave of absence.

“Lyse!”

Tataru comes rushing over as Lyse stares despondently at the myriad number of people waiting patiently, silently for access to the Scions infirmary. A Xaela with pale white hair and a child several ilms smaller than Alisaie or Alphinaud sit next to several familiar faces in Hamon Holyfist, Mylla Swordsong, and Estinien. A lady with ruby eyes has her gun laid out on the table as she cleans it, while a marauder curls up with some book just like Duscha’s own research. There are two people against the wall in the darkest corner, one in black and purple—much like Yugiri prefers for her shinobi activities—and the other in dark green and white, both sporting a pair of knives.

Tataru has two Thavnarian dancers and a small _conjurer_ child following her slowly when she leaps into Lyse’s arms. “I’ve missed you so, _so _much! Without you here, it’s so quiet around, at least, not when there’s a line waiting for Alianne to finish with her checkups.”

“Should… I should come back later,” Lyse says, scanning over the wide crowd of people and catching Estinien’s gaze proper. He merely raises an eyebrow and smirks. “I’ve still got things to do, and with all these people here before me…”

“I have reason to believe Alianne will let you in early,” Tataru smiles, eyebags wrinkling up as she does. “Unless you lot have an objection to letting a former Scion ahead of you?”

The Xaelan man in the back speaks up first. “A former Scion?”

“Yes! She’s only recently resigned to take care of Ala Mhigo as the Resistance Leader. Lyse Hext, at your service,” Tataru bows for Lyse while the man—who has a _greatsword—_leans back into his chair.

“As one of the first people here, I have no objections. You?”

He turns to the two resting by the darkened wall, where the one with a green bandana speaks. “None at all, if it please ye.”

“Then it’s settled. Go see your friends,” He says cooly. The small elezen girl behind him snickers. “We’ve got time that you don’t.”

“Thank you,” Lyse lets Tataru lead her down the twisting halls to the room, and when the door opens to reveal Alianne, the conjurer lets out a sigh.

“An early visit, I suppose?”

“Yes, just to Y’shtola. I promise I won’t be long?”

Alianne’s shoulders droop, hands losing the aether concentrated around them. “I suppose I need a break, anyways.”

Alianne and Tataru leave the room silently as Lyse makes her way to the stack of stools by the wall, counting the curtains until she stands in front of Y’shtola’s bed.

“Shtola…” Lyse whispers to no one. She sets her stool right next to Y’shtola’s left hand, brushing her own fingers against her friend’s arm.

The miqo’te mage lies silently and peacefully, a bouquet of lilies by her bedside. All in indigo or blue, Lyse realizes. Only one person prefers to leave their gifts that color among the Scions.

“Look, even Zaya’s worrying after you,” Lyse quickly pulls back the curtain to the left of Y’shtola, where Thancred lies. Sure enough, a slightly larger, more colorful bouquet rests on his bedside table. “Crazy, isn’t it?”

Lyse isn’t sure what she’s waiting for in between her sentences; a miracle, a prayer, some words made in her precious friend’s voice? None of which are possible, unless she were foolish enough to try and summon a primal to make any of the above happen.

“Sorry for not visiting you sooner. With Garlemald declaring war on the Alliance again, Ala Mhigo is stuck in another war, and so is the Resistance,” Lyse sighs. “It’s a lot more paperwork than I expected, but you know. All in a day’s work?”

Again, mere silence. Well, silence except for the wind rushing by outside the window.

“I… All I can do is pray you’ll come home, just like everyone else,” her thumbs twiddle fast, hands resting in her lap. “I felt hopeless when Riol came and told me you’d fallen to the spell. Now, I just feel… alone. All of you are gone again, and this time, Papalymo…”

It’s like losing everyone at the bloody banquet. No clue when you’ll see them next, only outfitted with the knowledge of who survived and who didn’t by the time you had to leave.

“But don’t worry! I’ll make sure that I never lose hope like that one time ever again, especially when it comes to you and the other Scions.”

Lyse beams to absolutely nothing, watching Y’shtola’s chest keep rising and falling in a slow, steady pattern. Her tail lies still, which isn’t right; it should be twitching back and forth as she sleeps.

“Just… promise me you’ll come back soon, alright? I just need a little bit of hope to hold onto in this mess of a world, so it’ll have to be you.”

Lyse takes a deep breath. If she keeps talking, she’ll be here forever. Time to finish this little message.

“Shtola,” she whispers as if Alianne and Tataru have their ears to the doorway. “I love you too much to leave you again, so please don’t make me.”

No one is here to listen to Lyse’s most cherished secret except the wind, and that way it will stay until Y’shtola’s pearly white eyes open again.

Lyse leaves to go find Alianne, heart just a bit lighter than when she came in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm... gonna come back to expand on this later. maybe on a make-up day? who knows.
> 
> hrrg why did i include bard npcs??? i only just met them in game too so like why???


	11. fan the flames, feed the storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien rushes forward as the flames he passes sputter in defeat, matching lance shaft with sword edge.
> 
> there is a lot they have left to do here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #11: snuff))
> 
> characters: estinien wyrmblood, aymeric de borel, zaya qestir
> 
> patch 4.56 spoilers lvl 70 'A Requiem For Heroes' cutscenes!

Dust settles in the seconds between the two of them, eyes locked as are their weapons.

“Zenos,” Estinien growls, lance slowly pushing the man back. “I thought you dead to the star.”

“And so he is.”

_What?_ Estinien flicks his lance upwards, armor scraping against the motion. Zenos or not, he is still a threat, judging by the bodies of the Resistance Commander, a Doman shinobi with her crown prince, and the sole remaining Warrior of Light.

Speaking of which, he needs to whisk the heavily bleeding monk away, afore the monster staring him down finds Estinien’s lance less satisfying than the last bastion of hope’s blood.

“It matters not to me who you are, only that you put up a sufficient fight,” Estinien snarls, lowering his weight as he readjusts his grip. One slip-up could mean death, like so many times before. The only difference being that this was no simple-minded dragon.

Estinien rushes forward as the flames he passes sputter in defeat, matching lance shaft with sword edge. His eyes meet the monster of a man’s own before again they separate, stuck in a stalemate.

Up to him to break it, then, if Zaya could not. He launches into the air to find himself yalms above the Garlean Prince’s head. Aether—or what is left of the aether here—gathers around him, forming ethereal wings as he takes the dive.

The gods-damned monster manages to jump back the moment Estinien’s speartip is set to go straight through his head. He smirks as if he has fooled someone.

He quickly loses that grin as he backflips, quickly slinging his spear onto his shoulder and scooping up the limp body of Zaya. He has no time to cradle their bleeding left arm further into his grasp before Zenos comes again with a fury in his eyes, bloodthirst practically seeping from him.

“Come back here! They must be _eliminated_ for the sake of our world!”

There is enough metal jutting out from the wreckage of Ghimlyt Dark to let Estinien gracefully escape the Garlean menace’s attacks, and so he takes to the skies. _Halone have mercy on the others_, he thinks as his legs slowly begin to tire, adrenaline wearing off. Lyse and Yugiri were fully out of commission, by the massive gashes running down their bodies. Hien seemed just fine, if not a bit exhausted of keeping up with the others.

The Ishgardian banner slinks into sight. Zaya’s arm bleeds with no signs of stopping; a poison on the blade? If they were to bleed out from this wound dangerously close to an artery…

Estinien decides this is a situation worthy of panic as he lands cautiously as possible in the encampment’s borders. “AYMERIC!”

The man himself whirls out of the largest tent, sword at the ready and eyes wild. When azure eyes meet the veritable pool of blood gathering at Estinien’s feet, the sword drops and he rushes over with an elixir at the ready.

“How long,” Aymeric demands, already pouring the shimmering concoction into Zaya’s wounds. They refuse to close. “Estinien. _How long?”_

“Couldn’t have been more than a few moments; they were still standing before I began moving to them.”

A chirurgeon comes to Aymeric’s side, staff at the ready and a pouch of potions. “Ser, allow me to see…”

The woman pats Estinien’s arm, motioning for Zaya to be set on the ground, presumably away from the puddle of blood. He merely lowers his arms, never letting go of Zaya as the hyuran healer sighs and gets to work.

Zaya’s eyes shoot open for a precious second, something burning behind their eyes. Aymeric, who is leaning near his shoulder, breathes sharply.

“They yet live,” Aymeric murmurs; presumably tired of seeing death of his loved ones. Estinien can understand. “Halone have mercy, do _not _let their life burn short now…”

All Estinien and Aymeric can do is watch as their Alliance assigned healer does their best to shelter the storm inside of Zaya from the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops don't look up snuff on urban dictionary


	12. burn your fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You all... are not the Warrior of Light, are you now."
> 
> he has been waiting nigh on a century only to fail them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #12: fingers crossed))
> 
> characters: crystal exarch, thancred waters, y'shtola rhul, urianger augurelt, alphinaud leveilleur, alisaie leveilleur, valdís otoel, tehra’ir naphto, duscha vesnasch, syhrwyda maetityrbwyn, a’dewah tia, lumelle de lipine, elwin de lipine, zaya qestir
> 
> major shadowbringers spoilers! finish SHB first pls.

Aether warps and burns within the Ocular as the floor hisses, ancient magicks pulsing through the Crystal Tower. Everything feels unreal as the air pops thrice and three _very naked _people fall to the floor in front of him. The mystel hits the ground much too hard headfirst while both the hume and viis glare at him with pure rancor.

“You all… are not the Warrior of Light, are you now,” he turns to face the crystal portal on the other wall instead. “Allow me to call the guard captain to bring you clothing.”

He has failed. Nearly a hundred years spent studying and planning for this one spell and he misses his target.

“Never did I expect to get whisked away by ancient magick and end up naked _again_ in my lifetime,” the hume laughs dryly.

He knows this voice; Thancred Waters, a spy and a _Scion_. If the Exarch were to stand a chance at keeping his ruse, he would have to falsify so much of his past! He had fully intended to tell the Warrior of Light his identity as soon as he summoned them to the First, but with the mistakes he’s made already…

“Forgive me. It seems my calls missed their mark,” He steadies his voice and loosens his grip on his staff. “I presume you would like to understand exactly _why_ I’ve been attempting to summon a select few people from your world?”

The speech barely sounds like _him_ anymore, but it seems to work; Thancred’s tone remains sharp and clipped with him. “I certainly hope you’ve got a good explanation for this. The Garleans are wont to take advantage of our every weakness.”

“First,” the viis stands up and clears her throat. “Can we get some clothes? If it’s anything to you, I’d prefer to have some sort of robe before we speak of good intentions.”

“Certainly. Wait here?”

He walks to leave the Ocular as both Thancred and the viis woman glare at his back, door cold to the touch as it closes. He only makes it out to the stairs leading to the front door of the tower before he collapses. The crystal replacing his right hand burns so horribly where it connects to his arm, overheated by aether. The pain is uncomfortable at best and extremely deterring at worst, with how fragile his body is already due to the passages of time.

Yet still his fingers itch to try again, to try harder this time, but his mind knows that he first must fix his own mistakes. It starts this time with a fresh set of robes instead of crystal sands, but it is an apology nonetheless. Lyna will know if Katliss has any robes to spare, and she’ll likely find out what he’s done.

What Lyna never needs to know is how angry he is with himself for bringing poor Scions into the final years of the First.

* * *

A year passes before the next time the Exarch allows himself to try again. Again, aether fizzles and burns through his crystalline blue arm as the staff sears in his hand. Air pops five times—he prays to the Twelve that one of the summoned is _her—_and several groans sound from in front of his closed eyes. If they appeared naked yet again, he would rather not see.

“Where in the bleedin’ hells are we,” a rumbling voice sounds, a distinctly Limsan accent seeping through. “Wait—is that the bastard that we saw?!”

Someone firmly grasps his shoulders from behind, hands large as a lion’s paws. Another speaks with a lilted and calm voice. “For your own sake, I pray you can tell us where we are. Not Eorzea, I presume?”

“No, somewhere much, much farther from your homeland, unfortunately,” he pauses, thinking hard. Thancred had asked much too similar questions. Another Scion? “However, presuming this went just the same as my last attempt to summon a friend, you must all be bereft of clothes?”

“Hast thou not gleaned our forms? Mine eyes see not under thine hood.”

The odd speech pattern gives him all the information he needs to know Urianger is among the summoned. Great. “I—Er, I closed my eyes before the spell had finished, in fear that this would happen. Allow me to move so that I may fetch you some robes.”

The paw-like hands let go of him. If he were to guess from his studies on who the rest of the summoned were, he’d presume at least Y’shtola to be here. Hells, how could he fool Y’shtola when she quite literally always found the truth within seconds of his lie?

As he formulates a plan of action, he wanders his way to where the small crates of robes are held within the Ocular (Lyna may have had Katliss leave him extras the first time he’d asked.), opening his eyes to find the familiar moss green cloth under his fingertips.

“Your hand,” the fifth person he had not heard previously ghosts their hand over his crystalline one, familiar scars crossing his vision. “It has gone crystal like the walls around us.”

He knows this voice already, ears underneath his hood flattening even further. Hands tremble as he hands a soft green robe to the mystel standing beside him. Some semblance of a ‘thank you’ passes his ears, but he is too lost in thought to respond in kind.

If he could not even imagine fooling Y’shtola, his best friend among the Scions who shared his hunger for knowledge, how could he fool A’dewah, who loved him more than he did himself?

“Perhaps you could begin your tale as you hand us those robes? If the extreme radiance I sense outside is what I believe it to be, we’ve a very short time to gain our bearings,” Y’shtola (or perhaps he is wrong? Y’shtola could never see aether very well before.) says, feet slowly making their way to his side. A more distant A’dewah agrees with her, muffled below what the Exarch presumes is the robes.

“Well,” he starts, feeling maybe-Y’shtola’s stare on him as he reaches for a smaller robe size. He has to fight for time to think; if he does not have a perfect alibi as the Exarch, his plans would crumble to dust “Would you mind allowing me some time to rest? The magic I have used drains a person like you would not believe, even with my… relationship to this tower.”

“I think no—”

“Y’shtola,” the rough voice pipes up again, in a pleading sort of tone. At least it guarantees that the mystel woman beside him is in fact his former friend. “I’ve reason to think he isn’t lyin’ about this. Shouldn’t we let ‘im get his bearin’s so he can tell us the whole truth?”

Y’shtola sighs. “Fine. We shall wait… somewhere, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” he says, fingers thrumming yet again from the remnants of the spell. It burns his fingertips, chest pounding harder the longer he stands. “I will return in a few bells, so feel free to go outside the tower. My guard captain, Lyna, is taking watch by the front door, and will be happy to lead you around the Crystarium. Do take care not to disturb the barrier leading into the center of the tower, alright?”

He waves as he walks towards the side hall, where the Umbilicus lay covered in books and papers. Distantly, the rough voice murmurs about the Crystarium’s name, but he pays it no mind.

He needs to plan how to tie the story of the First with his web of lies that he fed to Thancred, Valdís, and Tehra’ir a year ago before Y’shtola finds him out yet again.

* * *

It is the dead of night when he decides to come back to the Ocular after a long day a year later, staff and newly made spell circle sketch in hand.

He needs to succeed. The hundredth year as the Exarch approaches, and the First falls shortly after, according to the supposed time limit the future workers of Garlond Ironworks drafted while taking into account the Crystarium. Counting on all sorts of measurements for aether drain, the Lightwardens would succeed in their mission to drain the land of all its remaining aether and life.

Given that there already was so little, especially with the citizens of Eulmore indulging so heavily in their final moments, the impeding doom was on the horizon.

“Please, my friend, just cooperate,” he whispers to the crystal portal behind him. “We need you, and only you.”

All he can do is pray as he casts the spell yet again, feeling the aether seeping from both the tower and him. His finger burn as the air heats and pops, watching the sea of souls resting on the Source until he singles out the brightest one.

“Only you, please, _please_,” he pleads between harsh breaths, eyes wavering under the strain. He was never much good at spellcasting before.

He grabs hold onto the silver soul with deep blue streaks, holding steady as the final bits of the aetheric blue magic circle complete. The final thread of aether joins with the spell, and a single pop fills the air of the Ocular._ Please, please, please be her._

The Exarch turns quickly on his heel as he hears a pained groan yet no thump to the ground, like several of the others. An elezen child—is it her?—with snowy white hair and pale skin, bare as day. His eyes shut the moment he sees their height, thankfully, but it is not her. It isn’t the sole Warrior he needs from the eight of them.

His fingers burn as he rushes to find the slowly diminishing crate of robes from the Crystalline Mean, eyes burning hot with them. He can feel his arm slowly hardening with every spell; what will it take from him when he casts the one that finds its mark?

“Who…” the child behind him speaks, voice rough and unsteady. “Who the _hells _are you?”

The elezen child appears to be a boy, by the rough tone he holds in his voice, but it seems scared. That in itself strikes the Exarch as odd; for such a bright and bold soul to be scared the moment he is alone.

“You need not worry after my name, only that I am the Crystal Exarch, psuedo-leader of the Crystarium,” he repeats with surprising ease, having formulated a speech after the advent of Y’shtola, A’dewah, and Urianger all in one group. Gods, that was a nightmare to stumble his way through. “You are in the First, a shard of your home, the Source. I presume you cannot feel the aether outside of this tower?”

The boy mumbles a small agreement, reaching out slowly for the robe the Exarch holds out.

The Exarch can’t bear to look at the elezen boy at all, especially when he has not a piece of clothing. What weighs heavier on him is that this isn’t the Warrior of Light that he has so precious little time to find.

“Have you… Have you seen my friends, er, Urianger, Y’shtola, Thancred, and—”

“Yes,” he answers without needing to hear the rest. “I was the one who summoned all of you here, after all. Without your bodies, too.”

That piques the boy’s interest well enough, as his tone of cautious fear fades into one of confusion and true intrigue. Much like himself in his first few years at the Studium, he ponders as the boy rattles off question after question. His snow white hair reminds him of a small child he met in his final years there, but it could not possibly be that prestigious Leveilleur kid; they were trapped by their father in Sharlayan the last he’d seen of them.

It gives him hope to see the kid so determined to solve their Lightwarden problem the moment the Exarch mentions the First’s potential for demise while he’s here.

If someone so many years younger than him can devote himself to a world he’s never even seen before now, perhaps the Exarch should keep his hopes higher for the world’s recovery—both of them.

* * *

Even with his newfound hope in Alphinaud (he really had summoned one of Louisoix’s grandchildren to a doomed world, hadn’t he), the Exarch refrained from attempting the spell again for another whole year. Alphinaud had taken to Kholusia’s suffering easily, setting off with Syhrwyda and A’dewah by his side to conquer the Light there first. Y’shtola and Duscha took to the darkness of the Greatwood for their studies, and soon both had lost their trust in him. Unsurprising, sadly, with how bad he was at lying to their faces.

Urianger, Valdís, and Tehra’ir left for Il Mheg and have since not reported back once. He knows not of their efforts spent in the fae land, nor does he know of Thancred or the newly freed Minfilia.

Gods, he hopes they’ve escaped Ranjit’s fury. That old man was temperamental at best and downright murderous at worst. With Minfilia under his care, the Exarch was almost certain that each and every Oracle thereafter would be doomed to imprisonment and solitude under Ranjit’s watchful eye.

Without any news since the fourth moon of the new ‘year’, he has naught to lose by attempting another summoning. They had set a precedent for reports, after all, and two moons without a word meant to assume the worst about them.

(He still hopes and prays every night that they have not succumbed to a Lightwarden in their short time living here. Not even a soul made physical could be reverted from the Sin Eater change, with how corrupting the Light was here.)

Again, he sets to the Ocular, spell circle now firmly engraved into the floor as crystal portal glows, finding the brightest soul among the vast sea of the Source. Another soul just as luminous silver and deep blue as Alphinaud’s own, shining like a star among the darkness.

He tugs harshly, not even taking gentler pretenses like he did with Alphinaud’s own soul. He is running out of time, and if this one refuses to leave yet again, he may not ever see the day where Lyna gazes up and relaxes under clouds or blue sky or rain.

The air pops thrice yet again, and this time the thuds against the floor behind him are accompanied by dead silence. Someone’s hand slaps the cold tile floor. He dares not turn around the moment a deadly stare fixes on his back.

“_You,” _a girl snarls, rage building up through the air as the Exarch moves to the last crate of robes available from the Crystalline Mean. “You need to send me back, _now.”_

“I am afraid that isn’t possible,” he starts slowly, pulling a few smaller robes out from the crate. “What race are you three? I haven’t deemed it fit for me to look, presuming by the high pitch of your voice.”

The voice that speaks up is different, much more distant and despondent than the last. “Two elezen teens and a lalafell, sir.”

His presumptions were right, then. He pulls two hyuran sized robes from the crate and begins to dig for the last of the lalafell sized ones just as footsteps angrily make their way to him, sharp on the tile floor.

“You don’t understand! You brought us here and left the one person I made a promise not to leave alone on the Source,” she says sharply, small hand digging into his shoulder. “You _don’t understand_ how painful it is for them to be alone again. _Please_, just—just…”

The girl’s voice drifts away with her rage, small sobs and shivers wracking through her arm as it trembles on his shoulder. Faintly, he can feel his shoulder bleed from her nails digging into it, but he doesn’t mind.

“…Forgive me. Had I known the way time flowed on your world, I wouldn’t have had to leave your friend there at all…” he starts slowly, handing her a robe and pushing the other sets farther away with his staff. Two other sets of feet begin to walk to them as the small child behind him speaks.

“I’ve made them a promise not to leave them alone again… and now I’ve just gone and done it, haven’t I,” she whispers. The other girl who had spoken up earlier enters the Exarch’s field of vision.

_It is her._ His eyes widen unimaginably large under the lip of his hood, mouth almost dropping open with the shock. He doesn’t need to cast that infernal spell anymore, now with Lumelle here. The other child, who is presumably her brother, strides over to stand by her, looking sadly at Alisaie’s face.

“I’ve failed them yet again, dammit! And now, in some world where everyone else is, we live on just fine without them,” Alisaie swears under her breath, finally grabbing her robes and looking at them. “How long will it be until we can see them again?”

The Exarch flinches. He has no clue how time passes between here and the Source, so there is no feasible answer, but he has already hurt the Scions and their Warriors of Light—there is apparently more than one of them on the Source now—enough to last a lifetime. He would rather not damage their relationships with him more than he already has, especially if his plan is to work out in the end.

“I am certain it will not be long before you and they can meet, Alisaie,” He turns to look at the crystal portal, still hissing with the remaining aether of the failed spell. He many have technically failed, but if Lumelle was here, then the plan could begin.

His fingers still burn with aether even though they’ve gone numb to the probably life-shortening pain over the years of failing over and over again. He knows he shouldn’t, knows that it isn’t necessary anymore, but.

The list that is in his mind fills with one more objective: find Alisaie’s friend and summon them here, for he would wash his hands of the heavy guilt before he dies.

* * *

It takes him several moons to track down Thancred, who travels as a nomad with Minfilia across all of Norvrandt to escape Eulmore’s forces led by Ranjit. Even after a year, Ranjit has not given up his pursuit of the girl, ever desperate to serve Vauthry and imprison the Oracle.

“Who of the Warriors or the Scions has been left remaining on the Source?”

Thancred barks out a laugh when he asks that question. Minfilia is sitting outside, and can no longer hear her guardian figure’s bitter tone. “What, do you intend to summon all of us and leave us with no one to guard the Source from the Empire?”

“That… was not my intention,” he starts, hand clenching around nothing. “I am simply tired of hurting all of you through my own failures, and would like to make amends to Alisaie, who seemed the most damaged by my own misdeeds.”

“Then why come ask me for who remains and not her? She had been right in front of you, you know.”

“Alisaie had said that you know them best, and that you should be the one to explain what their soul might look like to me.”

“Well then! Apparently I’m the expert on Zaya now,” he starts, staring at the wall to his left rather than at the Exarch himself. Avoiding something, perhaps? His lies should not be this obvious as a spy. “They’re a fiery sort, made of aether aspected best to lightning and water at the same time. Souls hold a certain color, do they not?”

“You would be correct,” the Exarch replies. Mentally, he doesn’t quite understand the logistics behind having two aspects of aether, but that would be a mystery for later. “Most hold a color similar to their temperament, though, not their aether. Why mention it?”

“Zaya is different, you see,” he speaks of them with a fondness saved for couples, but a regret deep as the Tempest. “They’ve a certain affinity to the color of heroism; blues, that is, but cobalt and indigo blues seem to be what they gravitate naturally to, so I’d have to assume their soul is that same color. Would you not imagine those two colors the sort associated with storms?”

“I suppose you are correct there as well. Very well, I shall endeavor to look for them in the sea of souls.”

He turns to the crystal portal as Thancred finds it fit to leave one last bit of information with him.

“Oh, and Exarch?’

“Yes, Thancred?”

“Either perform that spell of yours correctly, or don’t do it at all. I—we can’t bear to see them hurt again, and you really risked that with Elwin’s summoning. Alright?”

He had not known of this before. “Hurt again…?”

“You don’t need to know the exacts, just… do it right.”

Thancred leaves soon after, hopefully taking Minfilia and himself far, far away. Eulmore would have easy access to who visited the Crystarium through Laxan Loft, and he would not wish ill on the duo after such a long journey here from Il Mheg.

He holds his staff up for a final time to the crystal portal, aether gathering and gleaming in the blue crystal. It sizzles and pops around him, and he is about to grasp his magicks around a particularly deep indigo soul with lightning bolts circling it when a flash of aether glints off of something by the crates nearby, now emptied of their robes.

“An Ironworks gear…” He lowers his staff, walking over to the gear that has not rusted over the century he has spent in this tower. It still looks like new metal, no grease hiding the symbol of the company. “Perform it correctly…”

He looks back to the portal, still holding onto the aether from his incomplete casting. He was about to try the same exact pattern all over again, expecting it to turn out different.

If he could just tell them to look around the Crystal Tower in their world, then perhaps he _could _fulfill Thancred’s wishes. If he could only…

He raises his staff again, fingers burning against the aether-filled air. The aether left in the portal could possibly be rerouted to a different spell, and if he could talk to them for a mere second…

The crystal centered in his staff glows bright, air pulsing around it and pushing his hood back just a bit, red eyes peeking at the weapon.

He would cross his fingers and pray to the Twelve for this to work if he were not already filled with hope and determination. If this works, then his plan may yet succeed.

“Zaya,” G’raha whispers under the eternal wind surrounding the head of his staff. “Throw wide the gates, for not only her sake but ours.”

His fingers recoil at the new spell, but he casts it anyways, Ironworks gear still gripped tightly in his free hand.

It works as intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's so rambly i just can't convey the crystal exarch properly i guess
> 
> *sigh* why do i do this to myself. why do i like hurting myself with 4.5 feels...


	13. thirty-two names for love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What in the seven hells does ‘halfway living your life’ have to do with sticking your hands into a beehive?”
> 
> the night falls over them through the web of trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #13: wax))
> 
> characters: thancred waters, ryne, y'shtola rhul, zaya qestir; runar and syhrwyda are mentioned!
> 
> set post-SHB! no explicit spoilers as far as i'm aware, but might want to finish SHB first just to be sure!

“What in the seven hells does ‘halfway living your life’ have to do with sticking your hands in a _beehive?”_

Y’shtola is hurrying back with a rather large pot of water as Thancred inspects the sticky hands of both Zaya and Ryne, golden honey droplets coating scales and skin. Blood spills from both of their arms, mixing crimson with gold like how Lyse spins in her sister’s dress back home.

_“It has everything to do with bees and hives, Thancred,”_ Zaya remains cryptic as always, a lightning bolt of a smile crossing their face.

“Zaya said that they needed some wax, so we went and got some gianthive chips from those beehives near Woven Oath,” Ryne beams even as Thancred bandages up some cuts lining her arms, cleaning golden honey from near the wounds. “We were still getting some honeycomb from the bees when some ochus came up from the swamp and attacked!”

All this for beeswax? “Couldn’t you have gotten Feo Ul to find you wax in Il Mheg? Certainly there are smaller, less dangerous bees there than in Rak’tika!”

_“Ryne wished to go see Y’shtola, and when Y’shtola mentioned a bee problem in Slitherbough, I could not stop myself from finishing my other tasks while we assisted the Night’s Blessed,”_ Zaya’s signs are sloppy, their fingers sticking together firmly.

“And why bring Ryne along? The treetops where the beehives hang are much too tall for you to bring both of you up there,” he mumbles to himself, somewhat bitter as he uses his fingers to wipe off the sticky honey from Ryne’s small hands, licking up the golden treat as he works. Good honey was practically ambrosia within the Crystarium with the previous threat of the Light before, and he was not one to waste a chance.

“Thancred, you may find this of use,” Y’shtola sets a pot of the dark-blessed water next to the log he sits at. “The golden honey made in gianthives is particularly sticky, especially if in hair or… fur.”

Y’shtola moves to sit across from him at the fire, and he sees a small spot in her tail where the fur is ever so slightly shorter than the rest. The urge to laugh is sharp against his lungs, but in favor of keeping his rights to reside in Slitherbough every now and then, he holds rumbling chuckles deep in his lungs. “Thank you, Matoya—er, am I allowed to call you your name?”

Y’shtola merely nods, a soft sigh leaving her chapped lips. Her tail wraps around to rest in her lap, twitching frequently with the fire sparks.

The four of them remain quiet, even as Runar comes to Y’shtola’s side, fussy as ever over his ‘Master Matoya’, even as Syhrwyda fills the pot Runar sets over the fire with vibrant vegetables—well, not then, as Ryne makes a small noise in the back of her throat when she sees those carrots she tried a year ago go into the pot. Thancred busies himself with scrubbing the honey from in-between Zaya’s scales and claws while Ryne washes the honey from her hair. At some point, Syhrwyda comes back with bowls and spoons, ladling out soup to the four of them as she takes the pot around camp, feeding the Night’s Blessed the same stuff.

From the corner of his eye, Thancred sees Ryne hesitate at the purplish carrot slices before scooping it into her mouth with closed eyes. A strangled sort of noise comes from her, and then she is wolfing down her food like a woman possessed.

Thancred takes his first bite and finds that he too can’t get enough; the roegadyn cooks seems to have used that gods-blessed honey in the soup somehow. Faintly, he thinks Y’shtola is laughing at the pair of them, but the indignance melts with the taste of the food.

The quietness of Slitherbough holds a strange, sponge-like hum that can nearly drive one mad. Yet it holds nothing on Thancred’s ears tonight, leaving the space of unease and discomfort in his breast empty. There are still normal birds resting in the branches over their heads, singing songs for the return of the dark whilst stars spin over them, gently cradling each and every soul below.

Night falls over Slitherbough through the web of trees and tree roots sheltering them, and in turn falls over the four of them while the fire crackles with a tamed sort of light about it.

Y’shtola finally breaks the silence after a few bells of reading the tome Alphinaud had found her. “Zaya, were you meaning to use the honey from these for anything?”

A small hum of approval comes from their hunched over form, busy separating wax from honeycomb from honey as their tail swishes back and forth. Ryne is curled up beside them, watching the process intensely.

Zaya turns to them, hands already dirtied after Thancred’s hard work with cleaning the scales of all their muck. _“For a special kind of wine I prefer. I learned from Momodi, so it is constantly in the back of my head.”_

“Oh, the Quicksand’s famous homemade honey wine? Color me surprised,” Thancred says from behind the rim of his third soup bowl. He will probably regret eating so much later, but that is a problem for future him. “I have tried to get the recipe from her before, but I thought her too secretive!”

Zaya laughs airily, eyes brightening with starlight and a hint of dark. _“Momodi wanted rumors and love stories, and so I provided her with some whilst I recovered.”_

Ryne cuts in before Thancred or Y’shtola can pry further. “Love stories? Can you tell us them? I—I mean, only if you’re comfortable with that!”

She waves her hands out in front of her, head shaking in time with them. Y’shtola silently closes her book, placing her hands in her lap. Zaya holds up one finger as they turn back to the honey pot that is slowly filling behind them, golden ambrosia shimmering under red firelight.

_“Did you know that there are hundreds and hundreds of ways to tell someone you love them? The Steppe has many, but there are people who have thirty-two ways to say love in varying degrees,” _Zaya hums something Thancred has never heard before in his time as a ‘bard’. The firepit between all of them slowly begins to change from a myriad number of reds and oranges to just as many blues and violets, dancing with figures and signs Thancred can just make out.

“Thank you, Zaya,” Y’shtola redirects her gaze to the firepit, eyes reflecting the near abyssal flame. Some sort of _real_ bard magic, then, unless someone is screwing with them.

Ryne gasps as several people rise from the fires, figures cut clear around unruly flares and sparks. Even Thancred finds himself enamored by Zaya’s spellweaving; entranced, even.

They hum a bit louder as they start signing again. _“Using words, we are so very limited in how we say love. We are so limited that we use the same word for loving good food as you do for loving family or a partner. The Qestir, however, use not words, but actions. In actions, there are infinite ways to show love.”_

All three of them watch the flames rise a bit higher as Zaya’s tune changes melody, the clear figures becoming one person, then three, then twelve, until the rest of the flame dies down. A snap has Thancred and Ryne both turning to read their hands.

_“Music, while not Qestiri in nature, is one way,” _ a small flute appears in the hands of one figure, dancing around the other people in a way not unlike Zaya when performing. _“Another, services and favors tailored just for them. A third that I’ve personally seen along the way, however…”_

The figures die out until there is one standing alone in the mass of flames. _“Sacrifice of all kinds.”_

Ryne scoots closer to his side, eyes sharpening at the figure slumping over in the flames. Zaya is not wrong; sacrifice is the ultimate act made in love, to choose to let everything slip from the hinges even if you’ve hung it up just so. In their stories, it would have likely been a knight with sterling blue hair to match his soul, or a daughter of the star who loved life so much she’d start a revolutionary organization to save it. Perhaps even a lalafell with golden locks and a golden heart like honey, casting his soul into the dark for the sake of his friend.

Thancred meets their eyes halfway. Zaya stops humming, eyes wandering back to the pot of honey dripping away behind them.

“Was that all, Zaya?”

They merely nod, eyes not leaving the half-filled honey pot. The gianthive chip is clean of the golden treat, leaving wax for candles and such. _“I have work to do. Forgive me…”_

Zaya walks away from the campfire, grabbing their pots of honey and bag of dried gianthive chips to drag them away. Ryne looks at him with confusion held in her eyes, and Y’shtola merely sighs.

“We’ve burdened them with the weight of the world, haven’t we?”

Thancred stands up. “We have, and now it’s up to us to help them lay it down.”

He takes Ryne’s hand and walks them to their small little home, up a tree root where the stars twinkle above them.

That night, he dreams of vivid blue crystals and soft gold hair; of lightning striking through the sky in soft cobalt licks and deep gold honey.

When he wakes, there is a crudely made set of candles lying at the foot of his hammock, shaped into a little gunblade with a nutkin by it, a tall sunflower with daggers at its feet, and a stack of books with a staff leaning against them. The nutkin is lopsided, the petals of the sunflower are jagged rather than soft, and the staff has clearly been welded back together a number of times; objectively, the candles are poorly made with unevenly melted wax.

Thancred’s battered heart lifts as he cradles the nutkin and gunblade candle in his hands.

They are perfectly tailor-made for him, Ryne, and Y’shtola, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gods 'the secret life of bees' inspired a whole lot of this chapter.
> 
> the secret life of bees by sue monk kidd is referenced for the title, the description sentence, and several offhanded references and sentences in the fic! please go read it; i think the book is lovely


	14. to go on spinning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her heart shatters when she comes out, holding a box with a roughly carved design in its side.
> 
> the world keeps on living no matter the sort of heartbreak that is happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #14: scour))
> 
> characters: estinien wyrmblood, tataru taru, lyse hext, cid garlond, krile mayer baldesion, zaya's siblings; wedge is mentioned but not by name so???
> 
> SHB spoilers! a pretty big one, but just to differentiate what it is, here's a hint; eighth umbral

The sky is filled with sadness, Taban thinks. Azim’s heart spins across the sky to hide behind dark grey clouds, sparking with sharp lightning within their souls. Nhaama’s bleeding heart hasn’t appeared for over a sennight, her and the stars hidden behind a gloomy cloud of teardrops.

Tuya and Delger tug at her coat sleeves, pointing towards the Shiokaze Holstery, if their map was to be believed. If only Taban could read these strange letters that Zaya had told them moons ago…

Sarnai nods to her, eyes wandering into the interior of the inn towards an elezen man sitting side by side with a… dragon? The man drinks furiously, eyes sullen while the dragonling (?) nudges his elbow, tail drooping off the table. Sarnai taps her temple, suggesting that the four of them know this man, and then motions to the small package at her side. Someone they know through Zaya and their friends?

Tuya takes off the moment she sets her eyes on the white haired man, feet ready to take to the sea as soon as they find someone who knows the way to Eorzea. Delger nearly slumps against the railing in defeat, tail saddened by his twin’s eagerness.

“Seven hells—!”

The man clearly does not expect a small Xaelan child to assault him in the middle of drinking his sorrows. Taban can merely rush into the somber establishment and attempt to apologize for her younger sibling’s excitement through actions, from bowing to pushing Tuya behind her. The little spitfire of a girl nearly escapes, too.

“I know, I know, gods,” the man mutters, looking longingly at his sake. “She meant no harm or whatever.”

It… The message made it to him?

He sighs harshly, tone tired and pained. “Zaya’s family, I’d presume? The comfort you hold with the world outside the Steppe tells stories.”

He motions for the four of them to take a seat at a table, gathering his sake bottles—all _three_ of them—and standing up. Taban takes a seat on the bench and lets her eyes wander, taking in the near empty bar and the unoccupied tables. What would drive customers away from such a decadent place?

“Why have you left Reunion now of all times? There is little to find across the sea,” he stumbles over his words tainted by pain. “Much less now.”

One of them must have tilted their head funny, as the man huffs. “Garleans. Always gods-damned Garleans and their machinery, isn’t it.”

He barks out a laugh before taking a swig of his sake. Tuya shudders as the man slams the bottle down on the table. “I think it’s better if you see it for yourselves. After all, Zaya says that your tribe believes that words are lies, hm?"

* * *

The elezen calls himself Estinien, taking him across violent seas in the ship of a pirate towards a port town by the name of Limsa Lominsa. From there, a cart lugged by yellow birds as high as Taban herself whisks them to a desert place much like where the Dotharl call home by the name of Ul’dah.

From here, Azim’s heart is tainted, color shifted and pained with reds and blacks. No clouds are in sight, and bodies line the streets. Tuya and Delger hide behind her as they pass a few men who scream and shout over a simple bag of meats.

“It only gets worse from here. If the twins cannot handle such displays, I would rather you turn back now,” he muses as his lance clanks against his chain mail. His hair is tied into a bun and a mask hides his eyes, and for no clear reason.

Taban has to work up the courage to tap Estinien’s shoulder and motion to her own eyes and hair in a way to show the difference from before and now.

“A simple preventing measure. My face is not one as well known as Zaya’s own, but it is enough to gather a crowd.”

They walk in relative silence—except for the people crying out in Pearl Lane for assistance—towards the inn known as the Quicksand. A lalafellian woman greets them, calling herself Momodi and holding herself in a way that is so, so tired compared to Taban’s own posture.

“Are these ones their…?”

“Yes. Have you any news about their whereabouts now?”

Momodi sighs, hopping over the counter and waving them towards the airship entrance. Her eyes are sunk deep within her otherwise childish face as she turns to face them. “Garlond Ironworks, I’ve heard from the grapevine. No news of the Scions.”

Estinien follows Momodi through the gates, rusted and crying out. Taban urges Sarnai and Delger onwards as Tuya sticks close to Estinien, tail wrapped around her left leg. It’s almost morbid how quiet Momodi’s tavern is, even with so many people resting within its walls. Even the airship landing is in shambles, with stones falling from their place in the walls and entrance desk looking like wolves had their way with it.

When their airship arrives with merely one lone man piloting it and Momodi leaves, Taban can come to one conclusion.

Something is desperately wrong at the soul of Eorzea.

* * *

The man piloting their airship is none other than Cid Garlond, whose inventions have crossed the sea to Kugane. Taban has seen several people with his company’s “magitek” creations, although none have escaped the disdain of many of the Steppe’s tribes.

“We’ve been holding Syhrwyda, Duscha, and A’dewah in our factory for a few moons. They’ve been waiting on Zaya, Tehra’ir, and Valdís to appear, but they’ve confirmed that Lumelle and Elwin…”

Cid trails off, and Estinien snaps his little skewer stick in half. The sky rumbles with something almighty, light striking through clouds in iridescent beams, much unlike any other light. Faintly, lightning strikes in soft edges, indigo levin painting the skies with some variance in color.

“Mor Dhona has been decimated, and its still rather dangerous to land there, so our factory’s been relocated to Limsa. However, the Waking Sands is still active, so I’m taking you lot there.”

As the sky warps with the light and the chemical like clouds, Cid leads their ship down to another Ul’dahn town. Here, less bodies line the streets, but some still remain. Another elezen man stands outside one of the doors, eyes staring right back into Taban’s own.

They land, and the case of lies traveling on Taban’s back seem to grow heavier.

* * *

This new elezen leads six of them into the Waking Sands, the upper level empty and disheveled, as if a bomb had come and gone within their home base.

“How goes it, Urianger?”

Urianger, apparently, remains silent as he opens the doors to them, leading into a hallway scarred with sword slashes and magical blasts. With such a mess outside of their little establishment, Taban can’t say she is surprised to find them in such a state of disrepair.

From around the corner, _another _lalafell rounds the corner with a gun in hand, followed by a hyuran woman decked in red silks and blue gemstones with a knife attached to her right hand.

“Oh, it’s just you, Urianger,” the woman rests her hands at her sides, knife sliding into a small bit of gold embellishment lining her arm. “Who are the others? Well, not Estinien, I mean.”

Estinien coughs loudly before Urianger can attempt to speak, explaining in his place. “Whose family could this be other than their’s, Lyse?”

“Then, you must be here for… that, huh.”

Lyse’s eyes drift to a set of doors much farther down the hall, watery and world weary. “She’s down there, just… be kind, alright? It hasn’t been a good few moons.”

Estinien nods, and Lyse begins to walk them down the halls. Cid and the lalafell stay behind, eyes wandering over to a set of tables, at which a few remaining people sit and ponder over a map. Everyone here looks tired of carrying a burden in their hearts, hesitant to even look at eager Tuya or shy Delger around Sarnai’s waist when they all peer over at them. It is odd, how depressed the friends Zaya and company had made over their long journey as Warriors.

Finally, Lyse opens the doors for them to walk into a sparsely decorated office, where two small women sit across from each other looking over documents and research.

“Tataru,” Lyse starts. “These people have traveled from the Steppe to meet with Zaya for… what was it now?”

Sarnai steps next to Lyse, holding out the small package filled with little bits of home made just for Zaya’s nameday. They had missed the past decade’s worth of them, so all of them—save Ochir, ever the stickler for ideals—planned to come and surprise them… but they are so elusive that not even Estinien will name their current location.

“Oh, their… their nameday…” Lyse chokes on her words, turning to face the fireplace burning low. Estinien slumps against the wall, closing his eyes and letting oily hair fall over his eyes. Tataru—the one with wisteria hair and levin eyes—merely nods,

Her heart shatters when she comes forward, holding a box with a roughly carved design in its side. Zaya’s favorite symbol for important belongings, in fact.

“This…this is all we could take of them after… after,” Tataru’s eyes wander to the engraving made on the sides. “We were going to take the so…to take _it_ to Widargelt, if he survived, and see if Lyse was fit to wield it in hopes to restore hope, but… they were your sibling first.”

Taban takes the box, entering a combination Zaya had made for this little lock moons ago—a moon, a topaz, a sun—and pops open the latch to reveal the three remaining things.

The first gift from the one they loved so dearly from years ago; the bracelet that held their knowledge. A honey gold soul crystal engraved with three parallel lines going diagonally, surrounded by topaz beads and dark leather.

A soul crystal of green and another of white and pink on a twin set of bracelets, similar to the first but without as much love as the first. The beads match, but not as perfectly carved and engraved from gemstone as the first had been. And finally…

The manzasiri bone hora their mother had given to Zaya just before they left for the world outside the Steppe, eyes bright and hands unscarred, touched by Nhaama’s graces in their eyes and in their scales. Even the hora were slightly blue in color from an accident involving berries and an even younger Tuya. It was the first and last time Zaya took off their mask on the Steppe outside of bathing and eating, still smiling underneath.

Sarnai taps their own mask as if to say _Where is theirs? _in silence to Tataru. Tuya grabs for the box, Delger holding her down so she refrains from jumping and knocking the delicate jewelry to the ground.

“Turned to ash through the gas… It was soaked in aether and magic, so along it went with them…” Tataru turns back to the lalafell with a pale yellow robe and the eyes of an old soul. “Krile, do you mind…?”

“Of course not.”

Tataru slowly walks to the turned chair, high back covering a frame on the wall from sight, and sits in it. The room falls silent as Taban reels from the discovery. To think that Zaya, so strong to win the Naadam, so smart as to preordain how to save Tuya, had fallen without a fight? Impossible, yet…

“Now you see? No one was safe from the incident you’ve certainly heard too much about now, not even them. If you wish to deliver that present to them, you’d have to make it through the afterlife and scour through each and every gods-damned soul that died that day,” Estinien remarks bitterly, eyes still closed. “Hells, I’d do it if it meant seeing those damn kids again, but we’ve a world to keep spinning, don’t we.”

Lyse breathes deep. “You’re right. Papalymo wouldn’t want us to crumble now, I’d think, so we have to… have to keep…”

She suddenly turns to run into the hallway, and in her eyes Taban can see sharp tears, golden lightning ripping through her soul and her heart with such sharpness to it. A whirlwind of red and gold leaves them in a room devoid of color.

“You’ve heard the most of it, I’d think,” Krile speaks soft, like down feathers to scales. “Heavier or not, the truth is yours now. What will you do in the final moments of the era, friends?”

Sarnai has her hand over her eyes, holding back her voice with sharp, biting edges of anger and hatred and blame. Taban can feel it come from her, waves of regret like crashing waves against an immovable wall. Tuya and Delger sniffle by Taban’s feet, eyes wet and hearts pouring out their fill of pain, so potent for mere teenagers, and Taban…

“…We will stay. This is the world Zaya chose, and we would see the end of it,” Taban speaks in soft, flowing words the moment the lull of words is too much, and it feels… odd. Eyes certainly widen at hearing her talk for the first time in their whole trip, but it was necessary. Actions and motions will not get this across to them. “There is never anything perfect. Only life, and I would not live halfway between the world of death and the world of life.”

Every world keeps spinning, no matter the magnitude of pain, suffering, and heartbreak they face. Even that of the Scions, who tell and show Taban stories of the main Scions while they yet lived, of fighters drinking deep of the Black Rose, of children and parents falling in the streets, soulless.

And Taban takes in those stories and keeps them close, for if those stories of despair and surviving despite it disappear, there will be nothing left to guide the next thousand thousand people to live as the world keeps on, keeps on, keeps on spinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watch me back on my 'the secret life of bees' ride with all the references and the sads


	15. on your feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is tired of waiting and waiting for them.
> 
> tick tock, warrior of light. time continues without you, so it's time to get. up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #15: free day, i chose time))
> 
> characters: emet-selch, ryne/mini-filia, feo ul, zaya qestir
> 
> major SHB spoilers! finish the story first pls, i don't want you spoiling yourself

The Warrior of Darkness is a failure; an utter and total failure. From their _precious _Scions and their recreated shards of themself to the entirety of their devotion to this world of absolute nobodies. There is no other option than to end this farce as destructively as possible.

Even if it means destroying the largest piece of Atalanta’s soul he’s seen in millennia, he must. There is only one way for this to end.

* * *

They yet live, and he’s invited the monster he knows will inevitably rise from the dust to his ever-so-faithful recreation of Amaurot. If he can deem to save at least them before the end of the First…

No. Zodiark demands all of the Warriors dead, and promises to include Atalanta and Hythlodaeus among the revived when He rises from the ashes Hydaelyn has left Him in. They are all he needs in this doomed world filled with imperfect beings.

He just needs to wait until the finished form of Agape, a newly born babe and still wobbling on their light filled wings, comes down to the depths of the darkest ocean. He can already see their monstrous form in his mind’s eye; a Creation that a friend had made long ago. Draconic yet angelic, lightning and water.

A sculpture of the end.

* * *

It has been _two weeks_ already, and still there is no sign of the Warrior of Darkness in the depths of the sea. Two weeks since the Exarch had attempted something so foolish on Mt. Gulg and now, now there is silence.

He is tired of waiting and waiting for them. For them to turn and slam the final nail into this world’s coffin that he has been building for nigh on a century now.

It is a simple thing for him to snap his fingers and find himself next to the soul he has wanted to find so dearly for millennia next to him. Their eyes are shut and their body is decaying, slowly rotting with the light inside of their soul.

A fae creature is resting by their head. Feo Ul, according to the orange and red coloration they hold compared to their green and pink brethren. They cannot see him, with the help of some invisibility spells he’s learned along the way. Relearned from his former life as an Amaurotine.

The girl they’ve so lovingly renamed Ryne after living her life under her predecessor’s name walks into the room, eyes sullen and skin pale. What have they been doing for so long to keep the Warrior under? Why not let them die, like the many they’ve let down before?

Ryne huffs at her own hands. “I have to be better than this… they need to live.”

The girl holds her hands over the Warrior’s chest—right where their soul would be, aether pouring into the cracks and pushing back the Light within them. It is a golden color; a stark contrast to the blues, violets, and whites currently piecing together Atalanta’s soul.

So this is the problem, then. Meddling by these Scions and their damned perseverance in the slimmest sight of hope.

Nothing to do but attempt to undo the girl’s work, then.

* * *

Finally, he can see Atalanta’s soul rumble, from so far under the sea and miles away. The Exarch is dying very slowly, not being near the rest of his soul long left in his tower. They are coming, and the Light is certainly cracking.

“Tick tock, Warrior of Darkness,” he mumbles. “Time does not wait even for someone as insignificant as you, so get up and _serve your purpose_.”

The final moments of Amaurot and Norvrandt are so very, very close. Finally, he can retire from this realm of infernal light (why did he choose light again?) and go back to mourning his civilization. For Atalanta, for Hythlodaeus.

(A small, selfish part of his soul that remains a cornflower blue whispers that this will be his end, to face these eight shards of Atalanta made whole. He is relieved. Will Hythlodaeus still look at him with kind eyes when he falls?)

Hades will end every insignificant life to bring back his people. There is no other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmm. i'll probably come back to this one. emet-selch is complicated.
> 
> atalanta is a greek name for a mortal woman who was raised by a bear, and i just thought her speed correlated pretty well with zaya's, so that's gonna be their theory amaurotine name!


	16. apparitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since the mysterious bastard who got their left arm scarred all over, they've been... seeing things that most definitely aren't real.
> 
> sometimes life decides to reveal things that you never really needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #16: jitter))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, aymeric de borel, ysayle dangoulain, haurchefant greystone
> 
> set after whatever patch number 'A Requiem for Heroes' is! i've given up on getting the 4.5x numbers right so take the title instead!!

They have never had an easy time of the Echo. With its unfortunately timed visions and the ability to understand every little language in the world like the back of their hand, the Echo was already quite a mess.

Zaya only wishes they could blame this one on the Echo. 

Ever since the mysterious bastard who got their left arm scarred all over, they’ve been… seeing things that most definitely are not real.

For example, Haurchefant and Ysayle right now, wide-eyed and _possibly _crying behind Aymeric as he unwraps the thick bandages covering the cuts on their left arm. They are still raw and very much red, although the normal ashen brown tone of their skin has returned.

“Hm,” Aymeric mumbles, eyeing the sheer amount of gauze the chirurgeons wrapped them with. “Perhaps mine own panic at your injuries caused some unnecessary distress among our healers.”

Zaya snorts. His distress could cause nobles to panic, much less chirurgeons. And just with his eyes! Persuasive bastard. Haurchefant laughs silently behind the worrywart of a man, eyes softening.

Aymeric taps the scales that are slowly filling in the deepest of the cuts like iridescent ink on tile. “Is this normal for scars? There are a slight number of au’ri fighters joining our force as of late due to relations with Doma, so any information on injuries would be of great assistance.”

They nod, also tapping on some small scars lining their legs. They are from so very long ago, with that first taste of primal aether and hellfire. Ysayle peers _through_ Aymeric, hair absolutely phasing through Aymeric’s gigantic pauldron as she gently taps at Zaya’s legs. He merely hums as if nothing strange is currently happening to his armor while Ysayle leans her entire torso through his shoulder.

“Is something about my pauldron bothering you?”

_“No,” _they scramble to sign some excuse before Aymeric also thinks they’ve bashed their head somewhere. It is surprisingly more difficult with only one hand. _“Was just wondering about the whole dragon-snake thing around your neck, actually. Has a noble ever asked why the Lord Commander had a dragon around his neck during a time of war?”_

Aymeric laughs, effectively distracted from Zaya’s nervous staring behind him as he shakes his head. He falls silent shortly after, occupied by the bandages he wraps tight around all of Zaya’s left arm.

“There, that should hold,” he says after a good thirty minutes. If nothing else, he is a good nurse, with how snug the bandages fit. “Do not be afraid to ask for a chirurgeon if they fall, yes?”

They nod, and Aymeric leaves the room, waving slightly over his shoulder. Haurchefant and Ysayle poke some sort of fun at the man’s gait, turning away from them.

The two of them must not realize that Zaya can see them. Lines sometimes jitter through both of their beings, and a sort of panic rises every time it happens as if they will suddenly leave them alone.

Luckily, it does not happen. Good. Zaya is tired of being left by themselves, and if it takes ghosts to amend that, then ghosts it will be.

* * *

It takes a certain kind of person to be able to silently watch someone _without_ getting caught at some point. Like Thancred, for instance. Or Riol.

Zaya is not that kind of person.

Haurchefant is staring right at them, and all they can do is freeze in their chair as they stare back. He’s been following around Emmanellain for at least six bells now, and Zaya just got… curious about the ghostly elezen after staying at the Rising Stones for too long. Thankfully the younger Fortemps kid hasn’t noticed Zaya’s abject horror at absolutely nothing, too enamored with his supper after a long day of work.

His words do not reach their horns, but the motions are there. “Zaya?”

Their tail starts tapping against their leg in a very nervous manner. Haurchefant wants to speak with them, but if they sign blatantly in front of Emmanellain, they’d have to explain the whole thing…

_“Later. Back at the… Falling Snows?”_ There is a blizzard currently whirling its way through Camp Dragonhead, so going back to the Stones is out of the question. Haurchefant thankfully understands and _phases through the wall_ as he goes to the camp’s intercessory.

Emmanellain drops his soup spoon as several tokens drop off the map table with no reason as to why. As Haurchefant walks through the wall, the map above the fireplace drops right into the embers.

“What in the seven hells…”

Now its time to find out if Zaya is the kind of person who can efficiently cover up supernatural happenings. (They apparently are not, after having to spend several bells comforting Emmanellain as his map gifted from Honoroit goes up in smoke.)

* * *

Ysayle and Haurchefant both await them in the “Falling Snows” after a tiring conversation with Emmanellain about ghosts. They are (attempting to be) sitting in some of the chairs, conversing in a language that no longer reaches mortal ears right as their attention flicks to Zaya walking in.

“You can see us?!”

Haurchefant launches right into the question before Zaya can even attempt to stoke the fireplace, attempting to slam a hand onto their shoulder. It goes right through them, as expected.

What Zaya does not expect is an Echo vision to come blasting through as he does.

A letter, sealed in a secret compartment of a drawer left behind. Honoroit, taking that exact same message from Emmanellain’s hands as he runs off towards the stone of Menphina, their former namesake. That blasted letter, taken by the wind just as Honoroit is about to reach Lumelle, Elwin, and Francel as they replace the flowers by Haurchefant’s grave.

The ghost of Haurchefant appears just behind his marker in dull, flickering lines jittering within the blizzard, eyes suddenly moving from Lumelle and Francel to them, invisible and extremely _not there_.

It ends, and they are ilms away from burning their tail in the fireplace as Ysayle and Haurchefant panic silently. Haurchefant mostly, since he probably didn’t expect to see them collapsing so soon after seeing them injured.

_“I’m alright,” _they sign as they flick their tail away from the embers. _“Just a little jittery from… a lot of things.”_

They relax and go to fake sitting back down as they beckon them upwards, Haurchefant having learned his lesson. The kettle Haurchefant used for hot chocolate is still in the corner of the room, pot of chocolate right besides it.

Ysayle and Haurchefant will never tell a soul that Zaya made three cups—after all, they are ghosts, jittering between existence and death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know those echo visions that have a bit of jitter effect on them? yeah, i went with echo and ghosts bc of that new tales of shadows.
> 
> shhhh im not late......... i swear.......


	17. upon a pedestal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their eyes both turn crystalline blue as Zaya touches them.
> 
> is the ascian correct in his telling of the story?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #17: obeisant))
> 
> characters: thancred waters, y'shtola rhul, alisaie + alphinaud leveilleur, urianger augurelt, zaya qestir, duscha vesnasch, syhrwyda maetityrbwyn; zaya/thancred (sorta kinda maybe??)
> 
> SHB spoilers! although the stuff this is based off of was already spoiled in the SHB previews by SE, still a spoodle!

G’raha has finally sent them home to the Source after a very long year or two of studying.

Zaya crashes onto the floor of the infirmary, thankfully missing their horns. Imagine if they had to spend another long year regrowing that! They sit up to find themselves surrounded by curtain, a bed besides them. Blue flower petals still remain perfectly set on their stems on the bedside table thanks to Severian.

Thancred sits up slow in his bed, eyes tired and sad. Getting him to leave Ryne’s side in the end was rather difficult, so Zaya can hazard a guess why he looks so… down. “So I suppose we’re back then. The scratchy feeling will need readjusting to.”

He scratches his little bit of beard, clearly disgruntled after not having to deal with facial hair yet again for five years. Y’shtola pulls back the curtain between them and scoffs.

“Perhaps if you deemed to take care of yourself before our adventures with Ryne, you’d be having a much better start to your day!”

Thancred sputters while Duscha’s laugh rumbles across the room. Alisaie and Alphinaud both walk over, leaning heavily on the metal bars holding up the curtains. 

“A year, you said? Feels like we’ve been asleep for a decade…” Alphinaud complains as his legs wobble. His twin seems just fine though, but just to be sure…

Zaya reaches out to grab the twins’ arms before they inevitably tumble over like newborn babes.

Their eyes both turn crystalline blue as Zaya touches them. Almost as blue as Minfilia’s during her time as Word of the Mother.

Zaya recoils harshly, bumping into the foot of Thancred’s bed. Alisaie drops to her knees before them while Alphinaud stares on blankly.

“What’s wrong, Warrior of Light?”

They spin on their heel to find Thancred and Y’shtola, their eyes the exact same blue.

_Hear… Feel… Think…_

The words of Hydaelyn come to surround them in deceptively gentle sounds, and their blue eyes _glow._

Except the words are coming from them.

_My Warrior of Light. My champion. _The Mother’s voice circles them, infirmary slowly blacking out at the edges as Urianger and Syhrwyda peer through the curtains, faces blank as slate.

_They are yours now. Your tempered._

Zaya shoots up from their sleep, eyes wildly searching their surroundings… their room in the Pendants. A nightmare, or an Echo vision?

“Zaya…” Thancred mumbles through his pillow. Right… the night after the celebrations. “You alright…?”

They try to hum a small affirmative sound to soothe him, but a strangled noise comes out instead. Thancred’s eyes… are they still that hazel brown, or will they find a luminous blue in their place?

Thancred’s arm comes out from under his pillow to tug loosely on their shoulder, forcing them back into the blankets.

“Nightmare?” His eyes open up a bit when he speaks. They nod very slightly. His eyes are hazel still, merely reflecting the pale light from their limbal rings.

In place of another question, Thancred simply begins to hum a small tune, chest rumbling like soft thunder as Zaya reaches an arm around him. Fingers stroke the scales lining the back of their neck, softly brushing over the edges of their scars as he travels over their skin.

Hydaelyn will probably never comfort Zaya again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhh gonna redo this at some point.... i hit a pretty big writer's block on this word....


	18. deep down beneath blinding indigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The flowers are lovely, but..."
> 
> with luck, these flowers will live through tomorrow that i will not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #18: wilt))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, tataru taru
> 
> patch 4.4 and beyond spoilers!
> 
> make-up day write!

Tataru stops them before they can enter the infirmary one day to visit the fallen Scions. Her eyes are as tired as they have been the past two moons. Honestly, Zaya’s own eyebags probably match hers, with how strenuous dealing with the Alliance leaders is.

“Zaya! It’s been a while, huh,” the lalafell muses, twiddling her thumbs. Her wisteria hair has grown longer, poking out from under the brim of her hat like dead flowers. “About the last time you visited. The flowers are lovely, but…”

Tataru makes a wild hand gesture before giving up. “It’s probably best you see them yourself.”

They walk side-by-side (more like side-by-leg) towards the infirmary, Tataru not saying a word. If the flowers were too much, why didn’t Tataru say so before they brought more for each of the Scions? Why even let them walk in with an almost comical armful of forget-me-nots if…

Tataru opens the door, and immediately the problem is clear. Thancred and Y’shtola’s bedside curtains are drawn to the sides, with Alianne gently trying to rearranged the blue flowers.

The flowers are on the verge of wilting and falling out of their vases.

“I’m rather surprised they’ve lasted this long! You trimmed them from a garden in Gridania and then brought them here, so at least three weeks now,” Tataru rushes to meet Alianne’s hands, grabbing a falling rose. “It just makes the room seem depressing to have wilting flowers, though…”

Zaya nods to themselves, eyes growing watery. Of course. Why didn’t they think of how ephemeral flowers are? Nothing lasts forever, especially not plant life. It’s so, so obvious, but still. Blue does not hide rotten flowers. Nor does red, by the looks of the red bouquet Zaya had made for Alisaie’s bedside table (it was the color that made her different from her brother, she said.) White becomes faded yellow, pale yellow becomes sickly brown, and green leaves turn old brown. Time isn’t kind on life.

Flowers and people weren’t meant to stay forever. It is as simple as that, no matter what.

Tataru tuts softly at something. “Now, now. We can always get more, can’t we?”

She slowly tugs at the ends of their tabard, trying to reach up to their face. Oh. They’re crying, aren’t they. That’s why the room looks like a failed art palette rather than an infirmary.

“I’m sure they’ll appreciate the flowers, though,” Tataru whispers to Zaya’s horns as they sit on the floor. Alianne’s skirt flows past them and eventually the door shuts. “They’d probably love everything you and the others have done to this room, if they were…”

Tataru doesn’t try to finish her sentence, sitting on the floor right alongside Zaya. She’s too far to Zaya’s right to see her face, but she sniffles a few times as she tilts her head around the room, eyes tracing the decorations from Hamon and Mylla to the little get-well-soon presents left in the corner of the room to gather dust by Estinien and Hilda. The tallest, longest one is probably a lance for Lumelle, to be honest. Estinien is not very good at wrapping boxes.

“…They’ll come back soon, right? It’s so unbearably lonely here,” Tataru mumbles into Zaya’s leg, her red beret hiding her eyes. The tears seep through their leggings. “I don’t want to be alone again, fearing for their lives.”

Zaya raises a hand to Tataru’s head, nodding to themselves. Teardrops flick off of their scales onto Tataru’s floppy hat, darkening the already maroon cloth. They can’t promise the lalafell anything; the work at Ghimlyt Dark is too important just like the search for the cure, so Tataru is forced to be alone until someone returns. 

What they can promise is more flowers. Color always makes something more lively, right?

* * *

Zaya brings more flowers the next week, all set in their vases and vibrant with colors. Tataru can’t help but look sadly at the beautiful sight that she knows will be gone in three weeks when Zaya next visits her.

_“They are different from last time,” _Zaya signs after she places all of the delicate vases down. They won’t tell her what, though. They have the same kinds of flowers and the same colors. Nothing much has changed about the bouquets they’ve brought (nor about the people that they’re for.)

Zaya raises a single finger to their lips. A secret, they say. Well, Tataru always has time, and so she waits for the third week to roll around to even step foot in the infimary. Alianne refuses to tell her any updates, not now when she’s already been found near tears by the door once.

Alianne willingly lets her in for once, and Tataru immediately knows the difference.

These flowers are still as vibrant and colorful as when Zaya carried them into the Rising Stones.

“Alchemy,” Tataru whispers, and everything feels just a bit better if only for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i changed it... it was gonna be a story on the side-effects of being a sponge for aether in SHB, but now it's even sadder!
> 
> (why do i make tataru cry. why do i make myself cry.)


	19. storm-tossed seas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even through dark water, their discolored scales glow like little stars carved into their skin.
> 
> he likes to think he knows the difference between astral and umbral light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #19: radiant))
> 
> characters: ardbert, zaya qestir, feo ul
> 
> major SHB spoilers! please finish the SHB MSQ before reading. also sort of a follow up to 'forgive me, forgive me not' aka prompt #7?

He follows as Zaya’s fae friend—the new _Titania_, how in the seven hells did they manage that—slowly, cautiously takes them to the sea floor with a simple wave of their staff.

“So you didn’t take my advice,” he mumbles from a few yalms away. Their fellow Warriors are merely Crystals of Light now, strings and chains holding them attached to Zaya’s fraying braided belt. “I only pray you have better luck than I did.”

They swim fast, he realizes, and even without any weight holding him back he struggles to keep up behind them. He would have lost them if not for one thing; they _glow _like a lantern.

Even through dark water, their discolored scales glow like little stars carved into their skin. Light aether practically radiates off them, and if it were not for the dark coloration of their skin and hair, Ardbert could have easily mistaken them for a Sin Eater akin to the Four Virtues his friends became after death.

Their being feels poisonous, even to a ghost like him. A corrupting presence that needs to be extinguished for the sake of others. It’s similar to how Ardbert once thought of them, years ago on the Source before Minfilia left him to this existence.

Except it isn’t true to him anymore. Every Warrior has their story, and theirs isn’t one of a corrupt person like his. It is one of raw emotion, radiating sadness and fear a lot more than a mere civilian would guess. He knows the faces of the Ishgardians, ever so similar to the Voeburtites he once knew a century ago. He remembers the voices of the Steppe and their one silent tribe’s facial expressions with a clarity unlike any other. He feels the aether of _home_ in Eorzea when he was really born on the First in what is now the Empty.

What he did was likely an invasion of their privacy, but it’s hard to control the Echo when you don’t have something like the Walker’s Special the Scions brewed many a time for allied adventurers. Even less so when there was no barrier between two souls.

Bells of watching Zaya struggle to swim any faster give way to a burst of air after Zaya sits themselves on a large, squishy piece of luminescent coral. Ardbert barely has time to look behind him before dark waters disappear from around them, lightening up the Tempest ever so slightly. A whale’s call sounds from above, and he immediately knows what happened.

“Bismarck?”

Zaya whips their head to him immediately, eyes wide.

He chuckles a bit before speaking again. “Yes, the First shares some similarities to the Source, even in ”primals“ or whatever you call them. However…”

He looks to the distance near where they came from. At least five heads, all of them familiar. “It seems like they won’t abandon you yet. What are you going to do?”

Zaya immediately leaps to their feet, running off in a totally different direction that the one they were swimming in. Sure, the glow off in the distance wasn’t as visible now, but surely…!

Ardbert turns to face the direction they went—already a good fifty yalms ahead!—and hollers. “Where are you going!? The glow was—”

Standing tall in the middle of the ocean is a crystal structure with a pipe-like extension leading to the surface like a chimney. The Crystarium would never want to expand much farther from the Crystal Tower, and no living soul happy with their life would leave, except for one blacksmith…

Zaya’s cloth tabard had major holes in it, and without proper gear, the newly displaced sea life might easily end them before they even make it to that odd glow! Of course, if that just so happened to be the Grenoldt that they’ve been missing for years, then perhaps…

“Hey! Watch your steps before you run into the dome!”

Ardbert runs across uneven sea floor, chasing after the radiant figure escaping into the crystal dome as the figure of Bismarck flies overhead. He can’t let them fight on alone. Minfilia left him here for a reason, and if he thinks he knows what she meant…

Zaya’s determined, glowing path will need a sidekick soon.

n.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for a canon divergence! yee haw 
> 
> i dont know why i think about canon divergence so much but i love writing it!


	20. shared soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Himaa took it as a blessing that so many of them were born with doppelgangers.
> 
> the leveilleur twins are exactly, perfectly identical in appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #20: bisect))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, alisaie leveilleur, alphinaud leveilleur
> 
> slight stormblood spoilers!
> 
> tw: mentions of suicide and death

The Himaa took it as a blessing that so many of them were born with doppelgangers. It forms the basis of their main fighting tactic; confusion. In battle, it was like watching the deceased rise to take revenge, and it definitely worked on many of the Steppe’s warriors.

Yet the price was steep.

Zaya had once met a pair of twins in Reunion that practically completed each other. Just after the next Naadam, they met one of the two searching for flowers near the remains of Kahkhol Iloh.

“He died in the fight to save me,” he says, eyes never leaving the few flowers he plucked from the ground. A sadness runs through his words, as if something was stolen from him when his twin died. Zaya could merely provide him with some more flowers from their personal garden at home and some kumis.

Days later, Zaya had heard news of someone taking their life in the House of the Crooked Coin from a Dotharl visiting Reunion. According to them, it was not clear who died, but Zaya knew almost immediately. He was broken from the moment his twin died. It was in his eyes.

* * *

When the tower of Specula Imperatoris fell to cannonfire, Zaya runs right alongside Alisaie to find Alphinaud, ignoring Pipin’s orders to fall back. Distantly, they can hear Lyse attempting to catch up to them.

Alisaie hollers as they run through the wreckage. “ALPHINAUD!?”

Her voice is filled with so much fear for her brother even though she had been arguing with him just bells before. If they cannot find Alphinaud alive, they think this will certainly break Alisaie’s spirit for a long time. Embers fill the air, and yet they keep running, risking the dangers of the smoke and fire on their lungs.

If they cannot find Alphinaud, the other half of Alisaie’s soul, the eyes of that Himaa man will be joined by the eyes of the red mage besides them.

Zaya is tired of being haunted by half-ghosts.


	21. fill their shoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is so much to do and never enough time before the next pile of demands and paperwork is crated into the Antecedent's tent.
> 
> zaya has not a second to waste on themselves. not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #21: crunch))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, tataru taru, guydelot thildonnet, sanson smyth
> 
> spoilers for stormblood patch uhhhh 4.5, i think

There is so much to do and never enough time before the next pile of demands and paperwork is crated into the Antecedent's tent. Alisaie’s belongings have long since been moved back to the Rising Stones, but the work doesn’t stop.

“What are we going to _do,” _Tataru wails over linkpearl. Zaya’s horns ring with the echo of their home base’s empty hallways. “Alisaie was taking care of all the stuff I couldn’t, being over here in Mor Dhona, but now she’s gone too!”

Zaya is merely glad that Guydelot cannot hear Tataru’s wails through their linkpearl, else he might be tempted to sing a calming tune. Tataru, however, is right; Sanson is in the middle of sifting through all the work Alisaie has left in her wake and Zaya honestly thinks he is going to cry in front of his unit, Guydelot, and them from the sheer amount.

“According to Vorsie over there, Zaya,” Guydelot interrupts Tataru’s next tangent over Alianne running out of avenues of which to find a cure for the Scions. “The Scions are expected to send a representative to the next Alliance meeting. I believe the only one left of your order here in Ghimlyt is… you?”

Zaya nods. Lumelle and Elwin both fell alongside Alisaie on the final battlefield, and they were accursed enough to have been spared of their fate.

“Then I suppose you’ve decided who’s to lead the Scions in these dark hours, then,” the bard muses, going back to plucking the strings on his harp aimlessly.

They have not. Without Alisaie, the Scions have begun to fall to shambles without an Antecedent holding the reins. Even Tataru, their esteemed manager of literally _everything_ not involving fighting, can’t hold together the various tasks the Scions must accomplish in the next few suns without failing to check something. All of their order has agreed to work solo until at least one of the elder Scions come to take the empty void.

Zaya sighs and tunes back into Tataru’s voice, listening to her rant about the Rising Stones being lonely in one horn while listening to Guydelot’s unfinished tunes and watching Sanson nearly scream over all the unfinished and abstract war plans piling up in the vacant Antecedent’s tent.

They can only hope Hoary Boulder comes back from Matoya’s Cave with Krile soon enough to attend to the Alliance matters.

* * *

There is no one left to come and appease the Alliance leaders among the remaining Scions at the Rising Stones. Arenvald is off killing Ifrit yet again, and Hoary has yet to report back from Matoya’s cave. Tataru is busy with caring for the fallen Scions, Riol is out doing Thancred’s mission, and there is only _one _left anywhere close to the meeting site.

With each passing second, the connections that Minfilia built and Alisaie worked so, _so _hard to upkeep with the Alliance crumble as they sit in the war tent with no representative from the Scions. The choice is slowly withering their avenues, and…

They have to take it. There is only one way for this to end, only one person left to become the Antecedent the Scions so desperately need. It’ll take breaking their mother’s promise, losing their freedom, forgetting their love for both the Sultana and for Sanson’s upcoming squadron.

But they have to. The chance of keeping the Scions together _has _to outweigh themselves. Even if it costs more than what they’re willing to give to the greedy hands of fate.

Zaya takes a deep breath, and pulls aside the tent flaps to enter the war tent. Sanson stands next to the Elder Seedseer, speaking in hushed whispers to Guydelot next to him until they both see Zaya enter.

Not just them. The whole tent falls silent, watching them like prey.

“…You were expecting the Antecedent,” they shakily say. Mother must never hear of this. She will not forgive them. “So here I am.”

The tent flaps shut behind them, and Fate forks the burdens of both Warrior and Antecedent onto them, expecting them to succeed. They must.

Even if the expectations crush their bones to dust.


	22. by my side, at my back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alisaie runs forward, her weapon at the ready, and Alphinaud is right behind her.
> 
> the only enemy i couldn't dare think living without; you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #22: free day; i chose 'siblings'))
> 
> characters: alisaie leveilleur, alphinaud leveilleur
> 
> patch 4.3 and SHB spoilers!

Alphinaud makes some less than ideal choices a lot of the time, but this. _This _is too much. Leaving to go across the Burn into Garlean territory? Already insanely dangerous. Going to Garlemald’s _capital?_ Even worse, but…

Alisaie can’t say in good faith that she wouldn’t do the same. She may not be as ready a politician as her brother, but any chance to see the inner workings of their enemy would be a chance to jump at.

“Go then. You’ve obviously made up your mind,” she sighs out. If he is half as stubborn as she is normally, then he will not budge a single inch on this. “Just try not to do anything reckless, alright? I don’t wish to have a repeat of Specula Imperatoris on my hands.”

Alphinaud’s eyes pinch when she mentions that incident where the tower had fallen with him in it. Of course he would; he’d been in bed for several suns afterwards! “I shall be on my best behavior. Farewell, my friends.”

And off he goes, Alisaie thinks, watching as the Pilus leads him to the airship landing of Castrum Fluminis.

“Come back safe,” she prays to no one in particular.

* * *

The next time they meet and properly _speak_ to each other, it’s been a year on Alphinaud’s side and a month on hers.

“Alisaie! You’re here,” he exclaims from the hallway of the Caternaries. The Exarch had led her here, stating that her twin was in room… whatever he said. She had quite literally been too mad to listen to the man once he explained himself thoroughly enough.

As much as she would like to return his excited tone, there is one problem. “Alphinaud, you fool! There are people sleeping right now!”

“Ah,” Alphinaud’s smile drops into a disgruntled frown. “I am still not accustomed to the whole time thing.”

That is the forgetful brother she still knows! It takes most of her restraint to swallow a laugh as bright as the sky as she strides over to him, mouth curved into a soft smile.

“So, how long have _you_ been here? I don’t know about you, but it feels like a month since we last saw each other,” she says. Alphinaud gets this devilish glint in his eye that he always gets when he has a plan.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he starts, smirk slowly taking over his pouty frown. “I think it’s been a good year or so since we last talked.”

Alisaie shrieks a little and wakes up the man in room 807.

* * *

“Another self-important little brat. Just what we need,” Alisaie remarks as Zaya lets their faerie friend—Feo Ul, if her sign language was still up to par—spin around their head. Red and orange as they may be compared to their other faerie friends, she still can’t find it in her to even respect them.

“Hmm,” Alphinaud walks up behind her, eyes also watching Feo Ul stomp the air angrily in front of Zaya. “Reminds me of my childhood.”

_Did he just…? _

Alisaie slowly turns her head towards her brother, eyes pinched and eyebrow twitching. He can’t have just… oh, but he totally _did_, the little bugger. She hears Minfilia gasp from behind her, but she frankly can’t be bothered enough to care about possible remarks from Thancred when she grabs her brother’s collar and tugs _hard._

Hopefully Zaya does not hear Alphinaud’s weak ‘It was a joke!’ from where they stand, otherwise she may have to face Syhrwyda’s wrath later today.

* * *

The world is ending below them, one miniature comet at a time. Red and orange spot the green landscape with ugly burns as more and more conjured rocks fly at the representation of the complete world made by Emet-Selch in his grief. As Zaya pushes on alongside Ryne, Urianger, and Thancred—of course it would be him right by their side, as it should—Alisaie can’t help but think how the monstrosities the Ascian has created are less horrifying than the literal _end of the world_ he puts on display below their feet.

“Alisaie, focus,” Alphinaud taps on her shoulder, looking worried like she’s never seen him before. “Although, it is rather horrific, isn’t it.”

They both look off the edge of the cobalt blue platform they stand upon to watch a few more falling stars crash into the skyline, fire flaring back up into the atmosphere. Was this what the Calamity looked like to Grandfather as he flew into the skies?

“We need to end this,” Alisaie murmurs. “Before he tries again to make his world come back by ending ours.”

He nods, hand resting on her shoulder, still looking off the edge as a few chimerical creatures fly by. Their faces give her the shivers, but what’s worse is the comically huge one awaiting them when they catch up to Zaya. It looks like a gods forsaken Gold Saucer machine!

“Slots, anyone? I’d rather not,” Alphinaud mumbles under his breath, and Alisaie can’t help but snort at his quip while he turns just a bit red in the face.

Thank the Twelve Thancred does not hear as he jumps forward, beginning the battle for the end. If he faltered halfway, they might’ve had a hell of a time getting him to recover as someone distracted the slot machine of a creature.

Alisaie runs forward, her weapon at the ready, and Alphinaud is right behind her. There are no words needed to understand just exactly how Alphinaud wants to stay close to her as they fight this monster of Emet-Selch’s mind, the platform crumbling underfoot and laser beams searing hairs from his braid.

_This enemy is great_, she thinks, _but there is no enemy I cannot defeat._

Then Alphinaud sends out his Obsidian Carbuncle as Zaya trips over their feet, and Alisaie amends that thought.

The only one she could never bear to defeat is her brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in honor of my brother being a mango today and stealing my popcorn but also helping me with my english notes.
> 
> i feel like a lot of siblings have the same ridiculous dynamic the leveilleurs share, just less frightening than theirs.


	23. flood of little miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Matron's tits, would it kill someone for it to rain here?"
> 
> water crystals do not produce very good water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #23: parched))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, guydelot thildonnet, sanson smyth, aymeric de borel (in a letter)
> 
> minor stormblood spoilers; mainly the location of the drabble

Zaya’s throat burns something fierce as they retreat from the battlefield, smoke and ash searing against their scales. If only Gyr Abanian weather leaned more towards damp than dry…

“Matron’s tits, would it kill someone for it to rain here?”

Guydelot holds no bars even while Sanson is around, but Zaya still finds themselves surprised. From hearing his little ditties to considerably blasphemous cursing (depending on who you ask) in less than a bell is… disorienting.

They must have made a noise, for the bard turns his head. His blue tinted hair sticks horribly to his forehead and his neck. “What, are you going to get on my arse about it too? It’s true, the best of the bards have all sorts of vocabulary, like—”

Sanson comes running through uneven ground to meet them halfway through their trek back to base. “There you two are! Alliance troops are, for some gods forsaken reason, fighting over our resources.”

In his gloved hands are three satchels of what looks to be water crystals and shards. “Take one of these before someone tries to assault me for taking three. Leather one’s specially for you, Zaya; a bonus share for the lead troop.”

Zaya merely squints at Sanson’s generally disgruntled expression as Guydelot slowly takes a satchel. Fighting over… water? The Resistance said they would provide ample supplies to prevent this, and they’d even gone and collected several crates more in case! Even Ishgard had agreed to the supply cycle between city-states, so they should lack nothing but able soldiers at this point in the year.

“Oho, so that’s why,” Guydelot whistles. He nimbly pulls a small little card from the insides of the pouch to flash in front of both of their faces. “Seems our fellow soldiers’ thirst delves deeper than their dried throats.”

The same paper appears to be in Zaya’s share of provisions, but an actual letter rather than a small note. On it, the words ‘Take care’ are scribbled neatly on the outside next to a perfectly penned name. The man really wrote the same set of words a thousand thousand times to place a note into each satchel of water crystals, didn’t he.

Sanson attempts to take the parchment from Guydelot’s fingers in vain, due to how the elezen bard is easily a fulm taller than him. He, unfortunately, does not notice Zaya’s letter and instead resigns to squinting at Guydelot’s raised hand. “…’Ser Aymeric’?”

Zaya lets an undignified snort as they peel open the wax of the rather long letter the Lord Commander has snuck into their share. To think he would have a small note placed in all of the provisions Ishgard has so kindly donated to make his letter seem in place amongst a battlefield!

Sanson laughs a little as he sets to cracking a water crystal into a battered mug he pulls from his satchel as Guydelot peers over their shoulder.

“And by the looks of it, our friendly Aymeric has eyes for only one,” the bard muses, hands slowly moving to grab his harp. “Hah! Look here. ‘My dearest friend, I hope the ruckus of my plan does not bother you overmuch. It was the best plan I could muster to justify placing this letter of mine into your provisions. As for myself, there has been little to do from Ishgard whilst Estinien—’”

No sooner than the moment Guydelot’s hands strum once over the tight dew strings of his harp does that exact same harp go flying across camp, Zaya’s metal boot outstretched as they read to themselves. Who gave him the right to read a letter for _them,_ anyways!?

“That better not be broken when I find it!”

Guydelot sings as he runs furiously to get his harp. Sanson sighs heavily after taking a large gulp of water.

“…What’s the letter say, then? I presume that’s why Guydelot’s running for his harp, anyway; tuned out whilst I drank to save myself from choking to death,” he mutters, shuffling closer to Zaya’s shoulder. They tilt the parchment to catch the firelight better, mythril ink shimmering in the night.

“To think that you’re on such good terms with the Ishgardian leader to have him spill his heaviest secrets to you,” Sanson murmurs as his eyes trace the letters. “Ah.”

Enclosed in this letter of Aymeric’s is a hand-drawn picture of Sanson, Guydelot, and Zaya, all busking that one time Guydelot had gotten them kicked out of the Forgotten Knight after breaking the table. Raindrops are slowly falling onto the parchment, but both of them are slightly too awe-struck by the fact Aymeric _drew _this from memory, it being over two years ago since that occured.

“This must never reach Guydelot’s eyes,” Sanson immediately looks up to find Guydelot marching back, harp still in one piece. “_Hide it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dunno, i just felt like writing some more bard shenanigans (+ aymeric) 
> 
> can anyone imagine aymeric doing something just so extra it makes people swoon? bc that's literally what i was thinking about when i wrote this; aymeric accidentally making the alliance army get a crush on him bc honestly who wouldn't?


	24. scar song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I didn't quite make it out unscathed."
> 
> there is a story behind every marred bit of flesh. zaya prefers the owner be alive to tell it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #24: unctuous))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, sanson smyth, guydelot thildonnet
> 
> set after lvl 70 BRD quest.

Sanson seems perfectly fine on their way back from the Coils, even after being held hostage for over a week as the Order debated like Sanson’s life was trivial. He smiles just the same as before, even if his hair frames his face differently untied, and his face is amazingly unharmed. By everyone’s account, the captain is still fit for duty.

By the Echo’s account, there is something desperately wrong, with how annoyingly frequent the jolts of alarm are getting. Specifically when the lancer touches his arms in any manner, gently or no.

When the three of them climb into the chocobo cart headed for Gridania, Sanson settles in with a half-grimace next to Guydelot; certainly not directed towards the bard himself, with how he practically wraps himself into the comfort of the bard’s arms.

“Feeling cold, Sanson?” Guydelot says, voice more tired than Zaya’s ever heard before. His hands press onto a part of the lancer’s forearms, and he _hisses._

Both of them absolutely _do not_ panic. Guydelot is simply moving his arms… behind his head while they rummage for something cold in their satchel. If only the Echo could be more specific outside of the visions it gives so they could find something more specific than _cold._

Sanson looks up from his feet. “What are you two doing? I merely—”

His sentence ends when he hits his arm lightly against the bench, eyes twitching in… pain, perhaps. Gods, why was the man so hard to read?

“You clearly are the opposite of fine, so why don’t you tell us so we might help you?”

“I—er, well…” Sanson flounders as the cart begins to move, air balloons jostling in the air. “I didn’t… quite make it out unscathed.”

He doesn’t make a move to reveal anymore than that, so Zaya takes it upon themselves to prod where Guydelot refuses to even hover his hands close to; his forearms, where his bracers have magically disappeared. As expected, Sanson flinches, but there is definitely something different about his jacket since they regrouped.

“How did you…?” His eyebrows raise into the messy hairline provided by his untied hair. “Fine. It is my arms, but…”

He rolls the sleeves of the bright yellow jacket up to reveal a loose layer of bandages. Thank Nhaama that there is no blood, but in the cracks, Zaya sees raised skin. Scars? Sanson seems ashamed of them, but for whatever reason he does not explain.

Whatever they are, they still look raw, so Zaya pulls a small tub of ointment from their satchel, provided by an overzealous A’dewah before they left for the Order’s barracks. If they apply it, his skin might be in turn scratched up by their claws and scales, so instead they hold it out to Guydelot, who is decidedly looking in the other direction from Sanson’s bandaged arms.

A quick kick to the knees sorts that out. “Matron have mercy, do you even know how _hard_ you kick? And what’s this, anyhow…”

His eyes could wither a plant if the ointment were not already made of dead plants. He should be able to understand; he’s understood their meaning from less before.

“Are you certain? If this is yours, I think you’d know how to best apply it.” A clear diversion. Ointment is not something that needs instructions, and both of them know this.

The moment Sanson looks away, partially ashamed by his arms and by his choice of friends, Zaya drops the container onto the bench next to them so they can sign some _choice_ words. _“If you let your stupid feelings prevent you from helping him heal, I cannot help you when he decides to move forward.”_

A very stupid, very unlikely idea, for Sanson to leave Guydelot’s side without so much as a word, but there has to be something that makes their fellow bard tick, and that is exactly it. When his eyebrow twitches twice, Zaya knows they’ve won, and they hand the tub back to him with a smirk on their face.

“Fine, fine, just give me a moment,” Guydelot slowly, cautiously opens up the cap of the blend, and the smell gets Sanson to turn. “Unwrap the bandages from your arms, Sanson. Please?”

Zaya never thought they would see the day the captain and the bard would bask in each other’s silence like sunlight, but here they are, on the back of what is probably the bumpiest chocobo cart in Eorzea, doing just that.

Slowly, carefully, the horrible, oily feeling from the Echo fades as Sanson’s scars are slathered in medicine, and Zaya can but pray this will be the end to the life-threatening situations for a while.


	25. whatever kept the waters calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't know what you want from me!"
> 
> who did i know; the lies or you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #25: trust))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, lyse hext, y'shtola rhul, tehra'ir naphto
> 
> i mean... patch 3.5 spoilers? its a character y'all have seen a lot of by now, i'm sure.
> 
> warning: this has an angry argument in it; i do not hate lyse, some reactions are just real visceral when given the truth.

As the false Archon’s mark Papalymo made with his own aether fade to dust, Lyse feels the weight of that one question fall back onto her shoulders. It never really went away, but wasn’t it lovely to pretend she knew what she was doing?

“I took her name when I had nothing left,” she murmurs, hearing the footsteps against creaky planks. “Yet I still haven’t found the answer to that question.”

Her eyes wander to the blank space left in the sky, where that white and blue prison Papalymo paid the ultimate price to create fell to bits just bells ago.

As the steps come to a stop—there were five sets, if she retained that skill Thancred taught young Lyse when Yda brought her along to their base then—she finds herself speaking with a breathless voice. “I don’t blame anyone. I knew what was going to happen when Papalymo asked for Tupsimati. I knew what was going to happen when he looked at that horrid primal with the fire in his eyes.”

“Yda…” Alphinaud’s voice rings true in the night air, cold and sharp and unforgiving.

She is not—can not be Yda anymore. Not when Papalymo’s last wish was…

Her hands slowly, shakily climb to the turban and mask hiding her identity. It was her idea in the start, and now she has to end it on her own.

“Yda,” Y’shtola starts, tone soft like downy. “There is no need to explain.”

“Oh, but there is,” she finds herself sounding bitter. “There has to be. I deceived people for _years_, Shtola, and now I have to live with it as myself. I can’t hide behind Papalymo’s little shadow and shouldn’t hide behind my sister’s mask. Not anymore.”

A confused noise comes from directly behind her. Oh gods, Zaya came with them. Gods, no, not them. Lyse could face anyone but them after this six-year lie. She curls her fingers ever tighter around Yda’s mask, and prays to all the gods that she can get through this.

The story of her sister, her father, the Ala Mhigan Resistance and then the Garleans is a long and painful one. There was a reason she’d buried it deep in the ground the day she took her sister’s name, praying to the Destroyer to let her keep the joy she’d find later on—and thinking about it now, she’d only had the happy-go-lucky personality to support that. Her sister wasn’t so cheerful, never so nonchalant as she made her seem to be.

“The day she died, I begged Papalymo to let me take up her name and mask, to pretend I was her, so good and kind and smart.”

“We all recognized you, you know,” Y’shtola adds after a moment of silence. “Papalymo persuaded us into playing into your charade.”

_You shouldn’t have played along,_ Lyse thinks. The Yda she pretended to be was a false image, and in the end, it never really helped anyone out. She still doesn’t know what to do now that she no longer has her sister’s image to guide her.

Zaya still stares at her with wide eyes. _“Why did you never tell me?”_

Lyse pulls the most forgiving face she can. “I’m sorry for lying to you. I really am, but I couldn’t think of how, really.”

_“Why would you lie in the first place? Why wouldn’t you let your sister remain a memory rather than living as her? Who do I actually know; L-y-s-e or Yda?”_ Zaya signs furiously, face hardening.

“It’s been me this whole time, pretending to be my sister because she’s always been so much better than me! If I didn’t lie, then what would I have done? I was nine and ten summers old then!” Lyse’s voice is raising, and the Serpents at the base of the spire can probably hear her, but she can’t care enough. _You don’t have a namesign anymore,_ her mind traitorously whispers.

_“You could have done anything, L-y-s-e, and you chose to pretend!”_

It comes spilling out so, so easily, even though she’s been denying for years. “I don’t know what you want from me! I’ve been Yda—who I couldn’t properly live up to, and I’ve been a lost little girl. I’ve been a liar, a pretender, a fighter, and still you don’t want that!”

“Yerself, Lyse. That’s all they wanted,” Tehra’ir speaks before she screams something else. Zaya is glaring holes into her head, and if they had laser eyes, Lyse would most certainly be dead. “Yet ye still pretended, hm?”

That is it. “It was me the _whole time!_ No matter how much I wanted to be my sister, it was fake like everything else!”

_“How can you say it was you when you always lied about how you felt—!”_

Zaya’s hands, instead of creating more furious words, snap to the sides of their head as they run to leave Lyse alone. An Echo vision _now, _after Lyse has already spilled her story?

Whatever. Perhaps then they will understand. For now, Y’shtola, Tehra’ir, Krile, and Alphinaud are still here, starstruck and wide eyes at her angry soul. She needs to deal with them before the stormy seas separating her from her friendship with Zaya.

(They do not understand, she finds out, when Zaya still gives her stern stares as they travel across the wall to Ala Mhigo.)

* * *

It takes a long time to forgive. It really does, and Lyse can understand now. She didn’t then, but it also takes a long time to learn your mistakes.

From Thancred, she learned that Zaya’s tribe does not take kindly to lies through words. By trusting them, they’ve already put their fragile hope in Eorzea on ice, and Urianger has first-hand experience with losing that same trust. Lyse also knows of the Dotharl, who live up to their former incarnation’s name and being.

She has done two of Zaya’s firm beliefs wrong, but there is a understanding the both of them lack, she thinks.

She lacked their upbringing as much as they do hers, so she sits them down with honey wine (according to Thancred, they cannot resist the temptation of it nor can they get overly drunk) and a stern look in her eyes. It has been many a moon, and now Ala Mhigo is free, and they both have the time to spare—hopefully? There is no rest for her, that is sure, but she bartered Naago some snacks for this.

“Look,” she starts firm, eyes not meeting theirs even as the bottle is slowly snuck off the table. “I understand that perhaps I shouldn’t have snapped all those moons ago, but you also did the same.”

Zaya nods. Good, maybe she can amend this after all.

“I did a _huge_ wrong in your book from what I’ve learned, and… I’m not sure how to say that I’m so sorry without making you think I’ve lied,” she admits. Her satin skirt sure looks interesting right about now. Perhaps she should have looked to Thancred for more help than she did. “My perspective makes this harder—"

Zaya taps the table harshly to make her look up. _“You’ve already said it.”_

“I have? I—I mean, I thought you had no reason to hear me out after how I…”

_“People grow. I have had nearly a year to understand that people lie, and trust can be misplaced,” _they sign fluently, not nearly as sharp as they did moons ago, on top of that spire. _“I believe you. Not just because of that bad timing Echo vision. I did not understand you either at that time and made poor choices because of it.”_

Lyse lets out a sigh of relief. “We had a mutual misunderstanding, according to Shtola. Do you think you can… get to know me, then?”

Zaya snickers, slowly pulling a small booklet onto the table. _“I suppose this is why Thancred handed me this on my way in.”_

A set of questions—in Ala Mhigan. “You can’t read these, can you?”

_“Not at all.”_

“Well, looks like you’ll just have to listen to me! First question: what’s your name—oh, we already know that.”

They laugh in unison, and Lyse can feel their trust slowly coming back as glass pieced together with gold.

Perhaps this time, they can both endeavor to grow into better people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is a reference to the song "Our Word" from 36 Questions, an online musical about a couple trying to prevent their divorce by answering 36 questions designed to make strangers fall in love.


	26. drink me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Splish splash,' the bottle of sleeping draught says, rolling slowly between their fingers.
> 
> there are nightmares they have, ones where their luck runs out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #26: slosh))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, sanson smyth, guydelot thildonnet
> 
> set post 'A Requiem for Heroes', so potential 4.5x spoilers? didn't notice any on my read through.

Zaya has been watching Guydelot and Sanson argue over one thing or another for the past three bells, wrapped up in many a blanket next to the fire. If the embers were to catch the end wrapped round their feet, they would burst into flames.

It matters not. The fire is just another incentive to keep awake, no matter how exhausted their body may be.

As they continue their pattern of digging their fingers into their thigh to stay awake even as their body fights back, Sanson walks over and squats down next to them. In his hand lays a vial of some liquid; a medicine?

“Zaya,” he says, voice low and steady as Guydelot slowly moves out of sight. Perhaps he was going to rest after exhausting all his energy on Sanson. “Have you slept in the past few suns?”

They shake their head. Why lie when it shows clearly on their face?

He squints at them, unwrapping gloved fingers from the vial of… something and holding it out for them to see the shimmering liquid beneath transparent glass. “I suggest you take this, then. I’ve reason to believe it will help you sleep for a reasonable amount of time.”

Zaya snorts. Would it really, though? The Echo was keen on haunting their every moment spent resting their eyes with visions of the ghosts they’ve left behind, so for it to yield to a sleeping draught would be… amazing.

They slowly pry a hand from the pile of blankets around them, pinching the vial between two fingers. ‘Splish splash,’ the bottle of sleeping draught says, rolling slowly between their fingers. If it truly does what Sanson advertises, then perhaps they should. He traces their movements with his eyes as they pop open the stopper, pausing only to look at him before downing it.

_Gods,_ it tastes weird. Zaya had prepared for the most bitter medicine available, knowing how Gridanian remedies leaned, but it is like eating sweets with fish!

As the final drop of shimmering liquid falls from the bottle into their mouth, the weight of their eyes finally takes over into a deep, endless, and thankfully _nightmare-less_ dark.

* * *

Sanson laughs softly, plucking the blue bottle and stopper from their loosened hands as Guydelot strides over, a smile on his face. “Well, look at that. You actually managed to get them to drink that.”

“Of course. What did you expect? For them to turn down a good rest?” He places the bottle back into his satchel, his journal holding it upright. “Now, do you remember which tent theirs might be?”

Both of them look out into the sea of tents making up the Alliance camps, swiveling their heads like fools as each tent they point out looks just the same as the rest.

“Not a clue. You didn’t think to ask before drugging them into their rest?”

Sanson’s pride rankles at the notion of ‘drugging’ not just the Warrior of Light, but their friend! “I—I did not ‘drug’ anyone! I merely offered a solution to an obvious problem, and you _helped_ me!”

“Sure, sure, just don’t wake up the camp with your protests, dear Screechy Sanson,” Guydelot muses, a smirk growing across his face as Sanson resists the temptation to complain more. “Now, instead of asking others where our friend’s tent is, why don’t we bring them to ours? Certainly waking up alone does not help with their walking nightmares, hm?”

Perhaps Guydelot had more insight into the matters of Zaya’s sleepless nights than he had first gleaned. If this were true… “Alright, but we’d have to share a cot. There isn’t enough room for even a futon in there, especially with your gear all over the floor.”

“I knew you’d come running to my bed one day!” Guydelot remarks as he lifts their fellow bard off the hard, jagged ground. How could they stand to sit on this?

Sanson sputters, nearly dropping the Au’ri back onto the ground. “You—that’s not what I meant by that!”

Guydelot waves over his shoulder, voice still teasing him even as he walks to their tent. “Forgive me for misunderstanding. It’s simply that you’ve done the act even in less concerning circumstances, so I was under the impression…”

“Perhaps I’ll leave you to sleep outside, if you are so inclined to—” Sanson nearly slams face first into a poor Maelstrom soldier’s tent when his foot catches on a piece of metal jutting from the ground. Guydelot turns, watching him flounder as his balance is so precariously restored with Zaya in his arms. Gods, what kinds of muscle did you need to have to be barely five fulms tall and weigh like a statue without your armor?

“Here, let me take them,” Guydelot offers in a kinder tone, approaching with arms held out. “So you can focus on resting too, with spending the day keeping the rookies alive and all. Wasn’t like singing strained my arms, anyhow.”

If Sanson is beet red while he follows Guydelot, the Warrior of Light laying boneless in the bard’s arms as he walks, the Alliance soldiers they pass are too drunk off their arse to remember.


	27. forgiven distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But if we take into account the size of them..."
> 
> scholarly talk gets rather repetitive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #27: palaver))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, y'shtola rhul, urianger augurelt, alphinaud leveilleur, alisaie leveilleur, thancred waters, ryne
> 
> set in post-SHB; no real story spoilers though

The sky has cleared of chilly rain and storm clouds, so today the Scions have relocated their little meet up to the Wandering Stairs rather than the tables of the Cabinet of Curiousity. Instead of drink and food, however, the table is covered in notes and books while Thancred, Alisaie, and Ryne hold their plates in their laps.

“But if we take into account the size of them…” Alphinaud stands up as Zaya tries to peer at the notes over his head, knocking the top of his head into their chin. “Ack—oh, forgive me, Zaya. I didn’t notice you there!”

“Just like you didn’t notice the page of notes with the correct measurements there?” Alisaie points at a yellowed piece of parchment dangling off the edge of the round table, ink stains and all covering the edges. Alphinaud snatches it from under whatever thick tome they’ve pulled from Moren’s collection now and slaps it in front of Y’shtola and Urianger.

The three scholars continue to argue over some number or calculation as Zaya moves over to the side of the table not filled with busy researchers. The text is in what is probably Sharlayan, anyhow; unfortunate that the Echo does not translate books.

“Come for a break from the Crystalline Mean, Zaya? Can’t say you’ll find much here, with how those three keep arguing over _talos.” _Thancred says, watching as Ryne stops eating to look curiously at Alphinaud. He’s… summoning his Carbuncle?

“Aetherical research, they say,” Alisaie mutters. The golden rapier isn’t by her side; instead, it is on the table under several opened books. “I say it’s just a plot to attract Duscha and A’dewah from the Crystal Tower.”

Ryne giggles under her breath as Alisaie huffs in annoyance. As Y’shtola starts drawing on a new piece of parchment, Zaya pulls a chair besides Thancred to steal one of his sandwiches.

“Hey,” he starts as they slowly pull the food away. “You could at least ask. Though I would say yes anyways.”

Zaya is about to put down their stolen snack to sign something clever back when the table jolts upwards, paper rustling as all the Scions stop and stare at who or what comes out from under the table. It couldn’t have been one of the new minions Zaya’s found during their time here, so..

A block with white wings flutters out, tiny legs on the bottom. A sin eater? It looks similar to that demon brick Duscha had brought home once, so perhaps it is related.

“Er, Ryne,” Thancred slowly pulls the knife from off his plate, gripping it firmly. “Is that what I think it is?”

The girl nods, and Thancred throws the knife at the brick. It dodges it easily by breaking apart into eight, and Zaya is left confused. By the looks of it, so are the other Scions, especially when it jumps up onto their lap.

At least it ended the conversation that Y’shtola and Urianger were having about talos uses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got spooked by the forgiven hate minion when it broke unexpectedly.


	28. listen to our heartbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their hearts beat the same way, and she knows what they're all meant to do.
> 
> i've been holding onto you this whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #28: attune))
> 
> characters: valdís otoel, zaya qestir, tehra'ir naphto, ardbert, nyelbert
> 
> major SHB spoilers! set just before the lvl 80 MSQ trial.

This is the moment everything has been leading up to since they met Emet-Selch, and Zaya, so tired and unlucky, falls. The bells of them wasting away in Amaurot have finished off the fading repairs done by Fray and Ryne, even though they should not have dissipated for another few suns.

“No fight left to fight,” the Ascian taunts, the Exarch laying on the ground just behind him in a small jail cell. “No life left to live, just like everything else!”

Emet-Selch raises his hand to channel some sort of Mist into his palm, all aspected like Zaya’s. _He intends to finish the job quickly,_ Valdís thinks. He always wanted the Rejoining to occur in the First, and now he’s using them to do it.

Valdís has a mind to act, no matter how futile it may be, until she along with eight other people are pulled into a room of pure white. In the center of it all lays Zaya, beaten and still choking on liquid light, standing next to a familiar soul.

“Arbert?” Syhrwyda whispers, and finally, _finally_ their voices can be heard. After just over a month, they’ve gone insane talking to no one but themselves. That has to be it, right? None of them have the power to do anything, not anymore.

The man looks up at her, smiling faintly. “You know, I never would have guessed you lot shared bits of one soul. Do you know what we need to do?”

Zaya lays lifeless on the floor of this neverending room of white next to his feet. Their hearts beat the same way, and she knows what they’re all meant to do.

“For the person who saved me as a child, I’d give up anything,” Valdís whispers as her feet find the strength to take one step, two steps, three. As she makes it to Zaya, she feels a part of her tugging to touch their horns, to comfort them. Tehra’ir is right across from her when they kneel down, eyes firm and filled with light.

He knows, too, that they were not meant to last past this journey to another shard. That if anyone were to come out whole from this ordeal, it would have to be them. This is what they were meant to do.

The moment her fingers grace the scales, she knows that the loss she will suffer is great, but it is entirely worth it. The piece she holds was never hers to begin with, after all. Borrowed power, borrowed spells. Zaya’s soul fights back against her touch, but they had been the one to give, to hand over part of their being to heal the cracks in Valdís’ own.

And now they need help, and Valdís is not one to betray a friend.

Valdís lets herself go into the deep Mist of the world, never expecting to return just the same. She will never hear the Wood again with these ears, nor speak words of encouragement in the same voice, but she knows who will.

_Zaya, I want you to live!_

The feeling is like teleporting, if she can still remember that clearly. As she floats off into what is probably the Lifestream, there is a warmth, a gentleness of light that wraps around her small soul. Hydaelyn calls, but her words are drowned out by another, more familiar voice.

“Let expanse contract, eon become instant,” echoes a voice through Valdís’ soul. The light around her shimmers with magicks that she should recognize, but doesn’t at all. Sigils in crystalline blue tug at the remainder of her. “Champions from beyond the rift, heed my call!”

By all accounts, his words shouldn’t work; she’s just given herself to save another and he does not hold the creation magicks of the ancient Amaurotines, nor the aether to do so. He has the power to call the living across the rift, not the dead. No one can revive the dead, really, but what of those who never died?

Either way, his summoning works, and she suddenly stands on that same crystal platform she had watched Zaya collapse onto moments ago, light surrounding her in little embers as her staff appears. Around her, more light pillars and figures come into shape. Tehra’ir is just in front of her, eyes wide as his beloved daggers from Jacke form in his open palms.

There is a part of Valdís’ aether and magicks that is missing. An empty space where her hands used to be able to pull more energy from to create fire and ice, thunder and sigils. It is Zaya’s now. It has always been theirs, and today is no different.

Zaya and her may not share a heartbeat nor a soul anymore, but the feeling of an elezen black mage fills that empty little space and resides in Valdís’ mind as warmth, and they both know how to help their friend. There is—has always been—an understanding between them, whether it be crossing ley lines or their ancient bits of their soul that still remember how they created fire.

_Listen to our voice,_ she thinks. _Can you hear us in there?_

They are one and the same, but she can still feel what is distinctly Nyelbert’s determination floods hers, strong and determined and _scared. _His voice is hers, but still different in a way that resembles Fray. In the corner of her eye, he is there, whispering spells and enchantments and fears._ Lost to a cold, dark void until the end of time. Is that what we will become in the face of this man?_

Then he dissipates, and she is left to wonder if he was really there or if it was a trick of the light.

The sole warmth filling her chest as she recites the enchantments for Fire IV in her head leads her to believe the former.


	29. double sharp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is your harp even tuned correctly?"
> 
> even the best of artists have off days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #29: free day, i chose 'practice'))
> 
> characters: zaya qestir, guydelot thildonnet, sanson smyth, some rando bard trainee
> 
> set after lvl 70 BRD quest! (guess who just finished it)

Sanson is still resting, as the conjurers found several injuries along his chest and back during his last check up. Still, not even the best of soldiers can afford a break, so Zaya offers to check up on the bard unit for him while they deliver a bag of snacks from a certain black mage to him.

What they didn’t expect is for Guydelot to already be at the training grounds, attempting to teach some simply songs to the recruits looking for an easy way to the top.

“Is your harp even tuned correctly?” The trainee muses as Guydelot strums gently across the strings of his brand new harp. Courtesy of A’dewah, according to him.

If glares could kill, that trainee would have likely been dead on the spot. Zaya watches cautiously as Guydelot stares holes into the trainee’s head, still strumming at his harp yet remaining silent.

“Are your ears even listening? This,” Guydelot strums something, and Zaya can feel the energy that it fills the air with. “Is what you need to learn.”

“Aren’t bards just glorified archers, anyhow? Thought the singing bit wouldn’t be that important.” The hyur shrugs, holding his harp lazily in-between three fingers and his palm. Gods, that position just makes Zaya ticked off.

It seems Guydelot has had enough as well, for when he spots them, his shoulders drop nearly half a fulm.

“Zaya! Thank the Matron. Whilst I’m gone, practice the song I was showing you.” Guydelot switches quickly between two different subjects as he rushes to leave the training grounds, presumably with them. “Sanson will be disappointed if you don’t have it complete when he’s back, if that helps any.”

The trainee makes no moves to correct the position of his harp when the two of them make to leave, satchels in hand. Guydelot keeps his harp close to his chest, but he simply strums little chords rather than composing any sort of piece. Weird; when they’re around, there are practically songs falling from his ears, with how much he strums at the strings.

“Have you ever seen someone so disobedient to someone’s face before? I wasn’t even forcing him to do the regimen that Sanson came up with to guarantee better performances!” Guydelot seethes as they walk towards the Order’s barracks, feet guiding them back to their captain without question. Hells, the lancer isn’t even in Zaya’s chosen Grand Company and they still feel a sort of allegiance to him!

In lieu of a signed answer, they merely shake their head. Not even Guydelot was that bad to Sanson in the beginning, but something is still off, even while their fellow bard keeps up his usual bravado and quips through their walk.

_The harp,_ their thoughts supply as they border near the room where Sanson rests in. Vorsaile simply nods as they pass him, not questioning for one moment why they’re here. Nor does he question the simply out of tune chords Guydelot strums; likely because he is partially tone deaf, but even some of the city’s children shirked away from the minor cacophony he’s been creating with his fingers.

…Alright, it isn’t _that_ bad, but still, something strikes them as off. They can only stare at his fingers, not willing to ask the bard why he’s out of tune in literally every chord.

“What?” Guydelot stops, staring right back at them. “Are you gonna say something about it too?”

Now that he’s stopped, they suppose they have to. _“Why just chords today? And they are out of tune.”_

He sighs heavily, hands dropping from the strings of his harp. “Here I was, thinking you wouldn’t notice. It’s been like… _this_ for a while now. Can’t find any words that match a tune, no stories to sing about.”

Curious, for normally Guydelot can write a song on something as little as the tea Sanson drinks while they wait for new assignments in Zaya’s spare time. Or when the blizzard keeps them all inside during an attempted visit to the moogles of Moghome. Even Sanson’s handwriting is not free from musical interpretation, nor his—

That’s it. Guydelot’s inspiration—his lifeblood for music, as he once said—is no longer bawdy trips to the tavern alongside women, changing just like the weather.

_“Perhaps Sanson will have a remedy for it. Shall we?”_ Zaya picks up the pace, knowing just the thing Guydelot needs to cheer up.

A’dewah did provide them with two other harps, after all, so it seems like a little trio is in order.

(Sanson may strum all the wrong strings in his medication-addled mindset, but even then, Guydelot and them cover him by playing some horrible sharps and flats on theirs. Not like anybody’s watching them practice.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, practicing my oboe playing test: is the high c fingering playing d instead??? what the hekc


	30. nyctophilia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With them comes the darkness, sweeping across Norvrandt as ink does paper.
> 
> they are diamonds strewn across a raven gown, boundless and beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((prompt #30: darkness))
> 
> characters: thancred waters, y'shtola rhul, alisaie leveilleur, alphinaud leveilleur, urianger augurelt, zaya qestir
> 
> post-SHB, so spoilers ahead!

When the fourteen of them—the Warriors of Darkness, he supposes—arrive back at the Crystarium with G’raha at their sides, Thancred finally realizes just how long it’s been since he’s had the time to stare up at the night sky. Even between killing Lightwardens by Zaya’s side and running from Eulmore, he’s never had the chance to just _watch_ as the stars pass him and everyone else behind.

He does just that the moment their merry band of Scions turned heroes breaks to find the way they wish to spend the first full night across all that remains of Norvrandt. A bottle of rum is changed for a bottle of fruit juice and a glass of water after Urianger nearly prods the nearly eight year old lion of previous conquests, when he was still a massive flirt. A dance with Zaya before they spin off to meet with Tehra’ir, skulking through shadows like always, leads to him climbing the stairs surrounding the aetheryte plaza and walking to the tallest tower in the Crystarium—Crystal Tower nonwithstanding—and sitting down with his bottle of… juice.

He feels a bit silly popping open a bottle of what is decidedly orange juice, but it reminds him of Limsa Lominsa in a good sort of way, so he shoves that feeling down deeper until it dissipates.

Five years is a long time to forget how something—or _someone_ looks. He barely can trace the path of the constellations he’s learned in his tenure of sneaking through libraries in search of something that might assist in the remedy for the infernal light. Even then, his research all fell to crumbles the moment he heard that Zaya was going around absorbing the light from the Lightwardens.

With them comes darkness, sweeping across Norvrandt as ink does paper. Even before they stepped into the role of Warrior of Darkness, iridescent black scales and deep blue lightning always signaled their arrival like glimmering stars did the night. The only way Thancred could have seen them more fit for the role were if they took the mantle of black mage or what have you instead of monk or bard.

(But they have, some secret part of him whispers. You’ve seen it; their darkside, their pain, their compromise. A dark knight is rather fitting, now, isn’t it? A hero swathed in darkness and grief and ugly feelings set to protect the world.)

“Dear gods, what nonsense are you sulking over now?” The familiar bite to Y’shtola’s tone (gods, he can’t remember to refer to her without the tribe prefix.) snaps him from his absolutely sentimental thoughts simply from staring at the newly born night sky.

“’Tis not _sulking,_ merely contemplating.” He pours more of the softly sweet orange juice into the mug he quietly took from one empty table, holding it out to her as she sits beside him, feet dangling off the edge of the platform. “Some reflecting too, perhaps. But not sulking.”

She shakes her head lightly, blue feathers rustling in her hair. “Say whatever you like, it changes not the truth. Is that…?”

“Only the best orange juice I’ve had in recent years.” He smirks even though she cannot see it; not truly. Perhaps his aether, no matter how limited, changes in motion.

“And not alcoholic in any manner? I’d loathe to treat the hangover Syhrwyda will have on the ‘morrow with one myself.”

“Oddly enough, no.” She raises an eyebrow at that, ears twitching at his words. “Is is truly that odd for me to have something simple every now and then? We can’t all be like Syhrwyda, almost forty and still drinking like a monster.”

That finally elicits a small laugh from her as she takes the mug of juice. There is still a considerable amount left in the bottle, but Thancred knows that the sorceress could easily down it all if given opportunity to. Especially if left in the vicinity of a treat including La Noscean oranges; he’s heard more than a few stories of tarts and cakes made with oranges pulling disappearing acts amongst the Scions.

As the two of them sit in comfortable silence under the shimmering sea of stars, Y’shtola holds no quarter as always. Even without looking at her, Thancred can feel her eyes stare deep into his inner thoughts with scrutiny.

“Is this about Zaya?” She inquires, still nursing the orange juice that she’s so graciously relieved him of. Seriously, why is it better after years of not tasting a drop?

“No point in tiptoeing around it, I suppose.” He sighs, still looking to the night sky and trying to keep count of the stars that vaguely seem blue to him. “If I were years younger, I’d have an urge to wax poetic about them.”

“And frighten them away? I think not.”

He snickers under his breath. “Seems you have not heard of their tenure as a true bard, then. Would you like to hear the tale of Sanson and his duet of bard assistants? A fascinating story, if nothing else, with how—”

“You are rambling, Thancred. Dodging the point as usual?” He is _not_ dodging anything, just trying to…

He is fooling no one, and also lying to himself. Didn’t he promise not to make such an effort to avoid the truth back in Amh Araeng?

Neither of them find any more words to share about their mutual friend, and so they sit together under the spinning sky, watching a shooting star or two streak across the sky like lightning. How auspicious, for there to be the remnants of a comet shower on the night of celebration.

“At last, we have found thee.” A familiar line and voice rings out, padded shoes placing weight on creaking boards. “Wouldst thee mind the company of four more?”

“It seems my sneaking skills have a lot left to be desired, if all of you have found me within the bell.” Alphinaud and Alisaie drop to sit side by side to his left, eyeing the bottle of juice that Y’shtola unconsciously is protecting with her tail. Ryne sits just behind all four of them. Urianger, curiously enough, has tied the cloth of his skirt into pants to settle next to Y’shtola.

“A lesson from Lumelle and Elwin. The clothes of astrologians leaves little to thine imagination.” He muses, quieter as to prevent the three children from hearing his not-so-appropriate meaning.

“I didn’t bring more than one mug, if you’re wondering, and Y’shtola here has custody of it. Honor of being the first to follow me.” She gives him a wilting glare over the ridge of the mug, either for not dropping the ‘Y’ or for subtly giving her snark. He is too distracted to figure which.

As the twins squabble next to him over a smaller bottle Ryne pulls from behind her back (how did they not see that? He doesn’t think he taught her that well.), Y’shtola finally pulls herself from the cup she nurses.

“Did I not tell you to refer to me as—?” Her eyes meet his, and he pulls the most apologetic face he can to avoid another verbal beating by her. “…Fine. Do as you will.”

The three of them look to the night sky instead of further pursuing the line of ‘rag on Thancred for something else’. G’raha and the others are certainly wondering where they have wandered off to by now, with how six of the main troupe have suddenly pulled a fast one on them. Perhaps then they can see the majesty of the night better than from the roofed Wandering Stairs, or the plaza where the glow of the Crystal Tower blinds and burns at the stars.

“The night has always been behind those light clouds, right?” Ryne asks, tapping on his shoulder. “The stars, the moon, the other planets that people think are out there; they were always watching over us as we fought?”

“Yes,” he says simply, because it is the whole truth. “Even as the sun rises into the sky and burns away the darkness, the stars and moon are still there. Even when the skies are clouded by aether, too.”

She seems to be in awe over just how much she’s been missing, staring slack-jawed at the constellations Urianger leans over to point out. He even directs her eyes to some of the navigating stars that he’s learned over the years. How much did ancient Voeburt value the study of the stars, for Urianger to have learned so much without leaving Il Mheg for more than a few bells?

Even without Urianger’s expert assistance, he knows the Spire and the Arrow don’t appear in the skies of the First, and neither do the other four of the Lower Heavens that Thancred was made to study in the Studium. He also knows that he’d already lost count of the stars from the moment Y’shtola came by.

“Even though we’ve cleared the light from this realm,” Alphinaud suddenly breaks the silence left after Urianger stops pointing the stars out to starstruck Ryne. “How much longer will they last, with the limited resources left? There is still a massive wall of corrupting light crystal around Amh Araeng, after all. I can’t imagine that’s healthy.”

The academician in Alphinaud is speaking out when he starts rambling on about the side effects of those light touched from the Inn at Journey’s Head, which brings a sentimental look to Alisaie’s eyes.

“For people who have survived on less for a century, I can’t imagine them having all that much trouble with it.” Thancred says. He’s watched them for five years from a distance, and he likes to think he knows how the inner workings run. “The problem is how much land was lost, really, with how the population can now expand without too high of a limit. Sin Eaters really do a number on a city’s number.”

Ryne’s been interested in the Empty for a while now, and that’s probably where life is leading him next; a proper guardian and a proper adventure this time. He’ll likely be able to answer Alphinaud’s question within weeks.

The six of them gradually run out of questions to keep bouncing off of each other, even ones like ‘How will we get home?’ or ‘Is she still waiting for me at home, perhaps?’. There is a large gap of questions that all of them have but will not share, though. The consequence of nearly a decade or so forcing themselves into neutrality when all they wanted was a family untied by shared blood.

Zaya finally finds them all, throwing their chakrams into the air when they refuse to stop looking at the night sky in all its dark glory. Ryne gasps at the little orange and pink wings encircling the blade of the rounded weapon as it falls back down to its owner.

As they beckon to no one in particular, Y’shtola grabs the now empty bottle and mug while whispering in his ear. “They call you, do they not? Why have you made no move as of yet?”

He finally stands, not afraid to say his answer out loud to all present. “They seem to want all of us, don’t you think? We should head down before G’raha is after us too.”

Y’shtola makes some sort of exasperated noise as she gets to her feet, Urianger busy untying his now wrinkled skirt behind her. The three children have already started going down the stairs, chattering excitedly over something random as usual. Thancred finds himself more than glad the twins have readily made friends with little Ryne as they did with Lumelle and Elwin; spending most of your life in a cell does horrors to one’s social skills.

“If I were in a worse mood, I might find problem with your unwillingness to even approach the subject of Zaya,” Y’shtola mumbles as the three of them start following the more eager half of their group to Zaya’s presence. “Though, I may have to admit a similar problem myself with Lyse. Be glad the orange juice was pleasant.”

Thancred is unsure whether to take that as a threat or as note of a good present to buy Y’shtola on her nameday, so he resigns to nodding. She says nothing else, but her eyes meet his even though they do not see. The near white glow they give off is comforting until she turns her head to Zaya, who is humming a small tune to themselves. The honey wine Thancred left them with seems to have lightened the mood that they approached him with earlier that night. He will probably be ever grateful for the existence of their inability to get drunk from Hydaelyn; that was a very high proof alcohol to be drinking alone, if he remembers the label correctly.

(Also very expensive, if Eidith were to be trusted. Honestly, he’s surprised she gave him the wine in the first place.)

Zaya’s dark, scaly hand wraps around his wrist when he places one of his hands on their shoulder, and for a moment, he is afraid of them potentially flipping him over their shoulder. Instead, they wrap their fingers with his and drag him along towards where the rest of the Warriors—and G’raha—await, clearly tired and definitely drunk off their arses. Y’shtola will have one hell of a time come morning. The light of the stars fades from view as they traverse through Musica Universalis, sadly, yet Zaya seems unbothered, even though he caught them staring earlier.

In the end, when the light leaves him, there is always the comforting darkness to bask in; his poorly done explanation to anyone who asks why he holds Zaya’s presence so dear. Thankfully, the only ones who ask later, before bed, are Urianger and Ryne; they understand more than anyone.

…Not more than Y’shtola perhaps, but then again, she always knew more about him than he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I MADE IT TO THE END! they're totally resting on that one platform from the SHB MSQ by the way. i hope you know what i mean... ;-;
> 
> if you've been reading all of these prompt fills, thank you so much! this is the first time i've written something like this and it feels amazing to know people like it 
> 
> (this is also the thing that seals my everlasting love for ffxiv even after abandoning it for like two years)


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